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On this Christmas Day, Sandra Brown --- New York Times bestselling author of over seventy novels, including SMASH CUT, RICOCHET, and the newly released RAINWATER --- shares a deeply personal story that eloquently describes the beauty of the human spirit; one that will surely offer even the biggest skeptic something to believe in.


It’s difficult to write anything about Christmas without slipping into cliché. Discovering an unexpected gift beneath the tree. Welcoming carolers at the door. Sipping a toddy while toasting toes in front of the fireplace where stockings are hung. Feasting on holiday food. These are the scenes depicted on greeting cards and camera commercials. All are clichés.

That doesn’t bother me in the least. I would go so far as to shamelessly declare that I’m partial to clichés. I thrive on traditions, and the cornier the better. I want my Christmases redolent with banalities. I like observing the rites year after year. Traditions are what make it Christmas.

But if I were to open my Christmas memory box and peer inside, two would stand out from the rest. One would be the Christmas of my sixth year. Perhaps this is the first Christmas of memory and that’s why it distinguishes itself in my recollections. The other would be a Christmas much more recent. Only one of these Christmases was happy, as the dictionary defines the word. But in the other, I found a unique joy.

These two holidays were celebrated in different locations, with different family members. One was observed through the eyes of a child, while the other was experienced from the perspective of an adult. These Christmases were separated by decades. They actually had nothing in common except the date on the calendar and, for me, the debatable existence of Santa Claus.

I have a large family. I’m the oldest of five sisters. My mother came from a family of five children; my father was the youngest of eight children, so there was never a shortage of aunts, uncles, and cousins with whom to spend holidays.

But Christmas was no ordinary holiday. In our family it was an “event.” It was anticipated throughout the rest of the year. The celebration stretched over the entire month of December. It was the reference point for scheduling anything else in the fourth quarter of the year. Something as mundane as a dental appointment or as significant as a wedding was either “before Christmas” or “after Christmas” or “sometime during Christmas.”

This heightened anticipation originated with my mother. Year-round she maintained a holiday outlook on life which crested at Christmastime. She was a romantic for whom rose-colored glasses were invented. She liked laughter and gaiety, sparkle and glitter, fanfare and festivity. She loved people and sought excuses to host parties and get-togethers. Not surprisingly, she was in her element during the Christmas season. It was her thing.

That distinctive Christmas of my childhood was celebrated at the home of my maternal grandparents in the small town of Fayetteville, Texas. At that time, there were only four grandchildren in the family --- me, my next oldest sister, Melanie, my cousin, Gloria,

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Sandra Dallas --- author of eight novels including NEW MERCIES, TALLGRASS and PRAYERS FOR SALE --- shares an extraordinary story of strength and determination, as well as a few simple gestures which represent the bonds that hold her family together.


Several years ago, my brother-in-law, Ted, had a massive stroke. He was paralyzed, not expected to live, and in the unlikely event Ted beat the odds, my sister Mary was told, he would never walk again, never leave the hospital, in fact. Ted refused to accept the inevitable and promised my sister through a system of blinks they had set up to communicate that in 18 months, he would walk their daughter down the aisle at her wedding. Embarking on a strenuous course of physical therapy, Ted learned to talk again and to walk, dragging himself between two hand rails, then moving up to a walker and finally, a cane. In August, 2007, on a brilliant day in suburban Chicago, Ted did indeed escort his daughter down the aisle to her waiting bridegroom. Love for the young couple and pride at Ted’s triumph brought tears to the eyes of all of us who witnessed the ceremony.

So it was fitting, I thought after the wedding, that I dedicate my upcoming book, PRAYERS FOR SALE, to Ted “for your grace and courage.” The book was not due out until April, but I wrapped up an Advanced Reader Copy and sent it to Ted last Christmas.

My sister called to say they all cried when they read the dedication, and Ted wrote, telling me, “I cannot recall ever being so soundly touched by any gift which brought so much meaning and emotion. The ‘grace and courage,’ ironically, probably are more a result of your own sister’s determination, more often seen as Dallas stubbornness…Your special sisterhood with Mary has sustained her so often and, therefore, made us infinitely stronger. PRAYERS FOR SALE and its dedication magnify that sisterhood, and gave her the power to lift me, and us, through.”

While I gave the book to Ted for Christmas, his note was the better present, one that I cherish, because rereading it reminds me of the special bonds that bind my family, bonds that have sustained us through joy and sorrow, and they are a far greater gift than any book.

-- Sandra Dallas


Tomorrow, Susan Arnout Smith reflects on the best present she never actually gave.

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Bestselling novelist Barbara Delinsky --- author of WHILE MY SISTER SLEEPS, THE SECRET BETWEEN US, and our latest Women's Fiction Author Spotlight title, NOT MY DAUGHTER --- revisits a past Christmas during which she'd offered one of her own books to a friend in need.


Some authors give their own books as holiday gifts. I wish I could do this, but the thought of it makes me squirm. I mean, my book can’t be compared with a bona fide gift --- or so my thinking goes. I did make an exception one year, though, and remember the details to this day.

THREE WISHES was never a holiday release. An oldie first published in 1997, it made its hardcover debut in September and its paperback one the following July. The setting is a small Vermont town, the protagonist a very special young woman, and yes, the plot does encompass Christmas. But it isn’t a Christmas Christmas book, if you know what I mean.

That said, it could be. The holidays are emotional times, and THREE WISHES is a tear-jerker, with a spiritual twist so wrenching that some of my readers have never forgiven me for it. At the same time, others have written me the most heart-warming letters in praise of this book.

Then came my friend Rebecca. I never actually met her in person --- we were introduced by a mutual friend, and our relationship was a long-distance one carried out by email. She was fighting a tough battle with breast cancer, of which I am a survivor, and though our correspondence began with how best to stare down this disease, it quickly moved on to things like family, knitting, and food. We also discussed books, though our tastes were different; she preferred mystery and intrigue, while I liked family drama. To my knowledge, she had never read any of my books.

As the holidays approached, her illness worsened, and our hopes dwindled. I wanted to send her something to engross her for a time, even lift her spirits, but I didn’t want her to think I was rushing a Christmas that she might not make. Sending her one of my books seemed like the perfect thing to do, and, of all of my books, THREE WISHES felt like a match.

She read it. I know this for fact, because she phoned me in tears to thank me for sending it, and we discussed it at length. More to the point, we discussed the theme of life as a gift that is more about quality than quantity. We talked of Bree Miller and her newborn son, then of Rebecca’s children, who, like Bree’s Wyatt, would keep her spirit alive.

That was the first and last time I ever heard Rebecca’s voice. Her emails grew truncated, then stopped, and shortly before the holidays, she passed away. Her family told me it was a peaceful death. I like to think a tiny part of that had to do with THREE WISHES and our talk.

I haven’t given another of my novels as a gift since, but sense that

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Jamie Ford, author of HOTEL AT THE CORNER OF BITTER AND SWEET, exposes his inner "alpha-geek" by revealing the unlikely book that claimed the top spot on his Christmas wish list one year.


My most memorable holiday book moment is somewhat akin to a bikini wax --- painful and somewhat embarrassing, so I’ll just let ‘er rip.

It was (wait for it) a dictionary.

Yes, an honest-to-goodness New World Dictionary, College Edition, in all its hardbound, five-pound glory. I was twelve and I loved it. Then again, I was an alpha-geek, prone to reading the Encyclopedia Britannica for its entertainment value and actually wanted a real dictionary for Christmas, not one of those weak-sauce pocket versions.

Because when you think about it, back in Paleolithic times, before www.merriam-webster.com, this was the Marine Corp Manual of dictionaries. Not only did it have full-color “bonus” pages with all the state flags (to which my mom and I deftly added the capitals in the margins), but it also had pages dedicated to crustaceans, insects, jewels and gems, poisonous plants, identification charts for hardwoods, and that all-important diorama of the human anatomy --- sexless and sterile, much to my disappointment. Plus, there were guides to birds’ eggs, seashells, styles of painting, and even liverworts (liverworts, people!)

Granted, it’s a little dated. And sure, it doesn’t have trendy words like: dirty bomb, flash mob, and unfriend. But it still has the important swear words.

It’s ironic how some addle-minded schools will ban books like THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, but leave that fount of all things four-lettered --- the dictionary --- just laying around. Even today I can remember that a certain word was preceded by the word fuchsin --- a purplish-red aniline dye. Some day that bit of trivia will be my savior on "Jeopardy."

And that same dictionary still sits on my shelf. It’s like the family bible. I could write birthdays, wedding dates and funerals on the inside cover and pass it down.

But the best part is that my kids now use it. The cover is duct-taped, the pages are dog-eared, and we highlight the words we look up --- each person leaving a little hash mark on the page, mileposts on their own academic journeys.

And they still laugh at the inscription from my parents, presented December 25, 1980: "Batteries not included."

Wishing you a book-filled holiday season!

-- Jamie Ford


This afternoon, Lynne Hinton joins us with musings on the love of words and stories passed on to her from her late grandfather.

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I grew up in a farmhouse full of books. My father, Robert Bly, is a poet; my mother, Carol Bly, was a short story writer. Poetry doesn’t pay, so there was very little money, though books managed to find their way into the house anyway. Christmas meant a stack of novels, emblazoned with my mother’s curly handwriting: Madison, Minnesota, Christmas, 1973. Or 1962 (the books started the year I was born). Or 2007, the last Christmas she was alive.

One year when I was around ten, finances must have been particularly tough. Though I realize in retrospect that the household was clearly strained, at the time I had no idea. We didn’t get a tree until Christmas Eve, which seemed exciting and novel. The next morning, there was the tree, stockings, and presents. Perfect joy!

Until I realized that there were no books under that tree. You see, if you happened to get some money on Christmas Eve in a farmhouse outside Madison, Minnesota (population 2,242), you couldn’t just drive to town and buy books for your children. They had to be ordered from afar, prepaid, and mailed in time to get to a rural route address.

I still remember looking across the crumpled wrapping paper at the Barbie doll I had asked for, and feeling a grueling sense of betrayal. I had pleaded with my feminist mother for that Barbie. But what I had counted on, without even knowing it, was the stack of novels.

My teenage son has a Kindle and free run of Amazon.com. Still, every year as I watch him rip open a stack of novels, I say a silent thanks to my parents for finding enough money for years of books --- and then another thanks for the Christmas when there were none. Stinging disappointment taught me a valuable lesson: that books will always matter more to me than
the world’s wide and various treasures.

-- Eloisa James


Check back this evening, as Katrina Kenison lists some of her family's favorite holiday stories, which they read aloud together every year.

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Cody McFadyen --- author of four thrillers, including THE DARKER SIDE and ABANDONED --- discusses some of his family's most cherished holiday traditions, and the one in particular that he knows will always continue.


We were poor when I was growing up. I’m not talking the "couldn’t get the newest iPhone" kind of poor. I mean impoverished. We ate spam and fried onions and all our furniture were hand-me-downs. This was back in the days when even the best TVs had rabbit-ears, and long before such a thing as the internet was available in the public domain. You tended to get your entertainment from two sources: life itself, and books, books, books. Christmas brought the two together.

We had all kinds of traditions. We each had a "special ornament." This was an ornament selected and given to each of the grandchildren by the grandparents. I got mine in 1976 --- a sterling silver Santa, with the year engraved on the back. It was hung by me on my grandparents tree for many Christmases, and was passed on to my parents when my grandparents were gone. It’s pulled out every year and has hung on one branch or another for thirty-three years. It’s probably the single longest running tradition in my life.

There was a complex gift-wrapping tradition amongst the men in my family. It was called "present disguise" (among other things, depending on how aggravated someone got), and consisted of packing a present in such a way as to make it impossible to guess the true contents. One memorable occasion: My uncle had gotten my dad a wallet. He put the wallet in a small box and threw in three or four marbles. That box was taped inside a bigger box. My uncle cut a hole in the bigger box and stuck the cardboard tube from a roll of paper towels about halfway through the hole. Then he wrapped the whole affair.

My dad picked it up and shook it carefully. He heard the marbles rattling around. He examined the strange, wrapped cylinder sticking out from the side. “Well,” he said, “based on the weight --- I’m going to guess it’s a wallet.”

Enjoyment of Christmas itself was the most sacred thing, but after that came the books. My family is a family that reads, and it always has been. I went through my parents' photo albums the other day and was struck by how many candid shots of someone caught reading a book I found. When we were poor, we used the library most of the time, but somehow I always got books at Christmas. I can only recall one Christmas where that wasn’t the case, and to be fair, that was before I knew how to read.

I have memories of curling up on my grandparents hearth, floor pillow at my back, book in my hands, certain that the world was a safe, secure and decent place. Safe enough that I could just let it all go and immerse myself in the world I was reading about. I know better now, of course, but those memories still sustain me. They keep me from lapsing into cynicism, which is possibly the primary purpose of good childhood memories.

A new Christmas is almost here and I have to sit back and compare. Things have changed, in that slow, living-of-life way that makes it all seem normal. My parents are senior citizens, and my grandparents are long gone. My cousin is in his

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Susan Shapiro Barash, author of TOXIC FRIENDS, muses on fond Hanukkah memories and passing on a love for the written word from generation to generation.


Growing up on a barrier island on the Jersey shore, there were no bookstores. The big treat in our family was to come to New York to visit our grandparents and to walk along Fifth Avenue, stopping at the Doubleday bookstore. The rich selection of books was enticing and exhilarating, and I attribute my love of books to those early days in this particular store.

At holiday time, my parents would shop in the city and bring gifts back home. I was always asked what I wanted for Hanukkah, and I always wanted books, relishing the thick gold wrapping paper with "Doubleday" scrawled across it in a black ink and the anticipation of reading everything from Louisa May Alcott to Yeats to Jane Austen, depending on the year. My senior year in high school, my mother asked me what books I wanted, and I chose THE MILL ON THE FLOSS and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Of course she came through, and those very books stand on my bookshelf still, through marriage, children, divorce, and remarriage.

If we fast forward to today, each of my three children would describe their own similar, if not identical, romance with books. And so, each year for Hanukkah, when I ask them what they want and the book orders come in, I know that despite our changing world, the vicissitudes of the internet and the advent of the kindle, that the sheer joy in unwrapping a book (now wrapped in Barnes and Noble gift paper) prevails, and the unmitigated experience of reading it remains.

-- Susan Shapiro Barash


Join us tomorrow, as Masha Hamilton reconnects with long-departed loved ones with the help of a beloved family cookbook.

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Ann Herendeen --- author of PHYLLIDA AND THE BROTHERHOOD OF PHILANDER, as well as the upcoming PRIDE/PREJUDICE --- revisits the Christmas she learned to read and the literary presents that followed, which have helped to shape the writer she is today.


Anybody who’s read my first novel, PHYLLIDA AND THE BROTHERHOOD OF PHILANDER, knows I’m unlikely to have much in the way of heartwarming holiday stories. The morning scene of carnage when I was a child is the standard one for twentieth-century middle-class households: exhausted parents, too many toys, and the day ends in tears as the cat pulls the tree over onto the neighbor’s toddler.

But once I learned to read, and received a book or two at Christmas, there was a shift in mood. From driving my parents crazy only by proxy, with thousands of Lego parts scattered on the living-room floor or the umpteenth iteration of Chatty Cathy’s limited repertoire of phrases, I was now able to torment them directly. E.B. White’s CHARLOTTE'S WEB was my first weapon of choice. Although I claimed to read it “all by myself,” this is something of an exaggeration. For one thing, I needed help with the longer or less familiar words, and most of the subtleties --- such as the farm family named “Arable” --- were lost on me. For another, I found the experience so delightful --- the characters, the story, and the amazing concept of an entire imaginary world brought to life through words printed in ink on paper --- that I felt an irresistible, and surely admirable urge to share my happiness. And thus began my habit of targeted reading aloud, to make sure nobody missed any of the great lines. My favorite was the cynical rat, Templeton, telling the other nervous animals as he rolled a rotten goose egg away, “I know what I’m doing. I handle stuff like this all the time.” That struck my five-year-old self as priceless --- and it still does; which is why, I suppose, I write comedy.

The next torture session occurred a few years later with THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH, by Norton Juster. This was something new: an entire book based on figures of speech and clichés, cobbled together to make an actual story with characters and a plot. I had never heard many of these terms, or not often enough to know they were common phrases, and as the sophisticated humor dawned on me, I was incapable of keeping all this ecstasy to myself. Every page was full of gems: the Lethergarians who inhabit the Doldrums; the feast in Dictionopolis, where people eat their words; Dr. Dischord and his assistant, the awful Dynne (whose grandfather, the dreadful Rauw, perished in the great silence epidemic of 1712); the fearsome monsters who lurk in the Mountains of Ignorance; and the princesses Sweet Rhyme and Pure Reason, banished to the Castle in the Air.

I don’t mean to discount the excellent illustrations, by Garth Williams (CW) and Jules Feiffer (PT) --- only that, even then, words stimulated my imagination more than pictures. Never in my wildest dreams could I be a visual artist, whereas playing with words…maybe, someday, that I could do.

The entire universe went briefly out of whack when I was fourteen. With my father unemployed, there could be no expensive presents. My parents borrowed books from the public library and --- oh, sacrileg

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On this sixth night of Hanukkah, Steve Luxenberg --- author of ANNIE'S GHOSTS --- illustrates that one doesn't necessarily need to observe Christmas in order to celebrate its traditions and revel in the sense of love, family and togetherness that the holiday brings.


I can’t shed any light on whether it snowed for six days and six nights when poet Dylan Thomas was twelve, or if it was twelve days and twelve nights when he was six, but I can say that we have read aloud his A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS IN WALES on ten Christmases since I was thirty and six times in the past six years --- and on Christmas Day 2009, we will gather to read it aloud once again.

This tradition --- those numbers qualify as a tradition by now, I think --- doesn’t begin with me or my family. For much of my younger life, as well as my wife’s, the hours of December 25 passed quietly, without presents or trees or ornaments or mistletoe or fanfare of any sort, unless one of the eight days of Hanukkah happened to fall on the same day as Christmas.

Some of my Christian friends found it hard to believe that I didn’t feel left out. Isn’t it hard, they asked, to have nothing to do on Christmas with all this merriment taking place around you?

In a word: no. The glow of Hanukkah candles burns bright in my seasonal memory, but the appearance of my Baltimore neighborhood’s outdoor Christmas lights merely reminds me that fall has arrived, dotting the autumn air with red and green and white, often before the leaves have begun their annual gold-and-orange ritual. I enjoy the traditions of Christmas, but they are not my traditions, and they have never held any special meaning for me.

Dylan Thomas’s winter wonderland changed that. My wife, our two children (now 23 and 25) and I have become part of another family’s Christmas tradition, the tradition of our good friends Scott Shane and Francie Weeks. They no longer remember exactly what prompted them, on Christmas Day 1976 --- their first Christmas of their married life --- to read aloud the story of Mrs. Prothero and her fire, of the Useful and Useless Presents, of the Uncles, “who put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept,” and of “the few small aunts,” aunties Dosie, Bessie and Hannah, “who laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.”

But now, once a year, wherever Scott and Francie may be, home or away, the slim volume comes out for a re-reading. A once-blank page in the book lists the year, place and names of those in attendance. The book has marked Christmases in Baltimore and Moscow, New England and Merry Old England. Scott and Francie had no children when they started this tradition; now their three children, ranging in age from 19 to 26, have never known a Christmas without a visit to that mystical, almost mythical snowbound land near the edge of “the carol-singing sea.”

If you asked me in July, I couldn’t tell you the story’s details or which passages I had read aloud the previous December or why I smile every time at the image of “the Uncles breathing like dolphins.” But I can tell you why that this quiet, quirky, very Welsh narrative has become a part of my fami

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Lisa Grunberger, author of YIDDISH YOGA, shares her bookish holiday memories through the voice of Ruthie, the septuagenarian protagonist of her debut novel, who reminisces about one of the first Chanukahs spent with her late husband, Harry.

The heroine of my first book, YIDDISH YOGA: Ruthie’s Adventures in Love, Loss, and the Lotus Position, is a 72-year-old Jewish grandmother living in New York. Ruthie, recently widowed, receives a year of yoga lessons as a gift from her granddaughter, to help her work through her grief.

Although she tweets regularly, her blog has been quiet lately, so I asked her to share with you a holiday memory about books, in time for Chanukah.


It is said that the Jewish people are “people of the Book.” To my Harry, my beloved husband, I owe an understanding of what this means, because of his gift to me of one book, THE JOYS OF YIDDISH, by Leo Rosten. This is a humorous collection of popular Yiddish words, each illustrated by a joke.

One Chanukah early in our marriage, we visited my parents, who spoke Yiddish at home. Momma put out a plate of golden potato pancakes with apple sauce and sour cream and a plate of hot suvganiyot, fried doughnuts dusted with confectioner’s sugar filled with apricot preserves.

“Harry, why don’t you read to us from THE JOYS OF YIDDISH?” I asked him.

I wanted Momma and Poppa to see how funny Harry was. How heimish, which means homey, like family. Harry picked up the book, and I could tell he was nervous, for he was perspiring. It was hot in my parents’ New York apartment --- no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t adjust the heat. He turned to a random page.

“Chozzerai: pronounced kho-zair-eye to rhyme with ‘roz her eye.’” He read the definition, “A Yiddish derivation from the Hebrew “khazir,” pig.
1. Food that is awful. ‘Who can eat such chozzerai?’
2. Junk, trash.
3. Anything disgusting.

“In modern terms, chozzerai means crap. This may be a gross libel on the innocent pig since the pig, contrary to popular belief, is a quite tidy creature; he wallows in mud because he likes to stay cool.”

“So Harry,” Momma interrupted. “You think I serve you chozzerai? You eat pig? You feed my daughter meat that is not kosher? You don’t like my baking? You think we’re not fancy enough?”

Harry composed himself. “Mrs. Greenberg, Jewish tradition tells us that Elijah, the perpetually journeying prophet, appears in many unexpected guises in order to help people recover the spark of their lives. Books that we love are our lights, which help us dedicate and re-dedicate ourselves, which is the meaning of Chanukah, for the temple was rededicated.” He took a quick breath. “I am a lawyer, and I love words and books, and culture and Yiddish and Hebrew. . . and your daughter, Ruthie. She is my light, my book, my miracle. I dedicate

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Betsy Carter, author of THE PUZZLE KING, muses on the reciprocal value of literature as she she describes finding a treasured copy of an old classic to present to her spouse on Christmas Day.


I’d heard about the book before I ever met it. It was one of the first stories he’d ever told me about himself: the trip to the Catskills with his sister and brother-in-law. How he’d found the book on a shelf by the fireplace and how, to his 12-year-old mind, the orange leather binding and beautiful hand-colored plates seemed like a treasure. And that was before he’d even read the thing. It was the book that drew him into the world of animals and cemented his belief that they were as complicated and communicative as we are. He must have read this book more than a hundred times, he said, and each time he discovered something new.

I met the book during our first summer together when we went on a misguided trip to Sedona. It was north of 120 degrees on some days --- too hot for even airplanes to land or take off. So our vacation was mostly early mornings and late afternoons, ducking into museums or bookstores wherever we could find them. On one of those forays, I found a well air-conditioned antique store. He opted for a Starbucks instead. I rummaged through the Victorian furniture and porcelain tea sets when my eye was drawn to a stack of moldy books. One of them had a slightly battered orange cover. There was a beautiful painting of Baloo the bear and Mowgli the wolf boy on the cover. The type was an elegant old serif and there were plates of colored pictures throughout. It had to be a copy of the one he’d had as a child. I bought the book, stuffed into my bag and never said anything about it until the following Christmas, when I wrapped it up and wrote a note saying that I had invited some old friends to come and visit. The present brought tears to his eyes and earned me a wad of merits in the sensitive fiance department.

Two months later, when I got a bad case of the flu, I finally got to know the book as he sat by my bedside and read me the stories: putting the pedal to his "s's" when speaking the python Kaa’s throaty words; making his syllables as full and round as trombone notes when he became Baloo the bear, and turning his voice alternately silky and menacing as the mighty black panther Bagheera. And when he was little Mowgli, he was as sweet and awestruck as a 12-year-old boy who discovers that animals can talk.

He still says that copy of THE JUNGLE BOOK was the best Christmas gift I ever gave him, but I say his way of introducing its characters to me was the best present anyone ever gave me.

-- Betsy Carter


This afternoon, Lisa Grunberger's 72-year-old protagonist, Ruthie, discusses sharing a favorite copy of THE JOYS OF YIDDISH with her share with her classmates at yoga class.

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Kristin Hannah --- author of MAGIC HOUR, FIREFLY LANE and TRUE COLORS --- recalls how a thoughtful Christmas gift and a nasty case of the flu introduced her to what has since become of her favorite and most important book she's ever read.


When asked to write about my memorable holiday reading experiences, the difficulty lies in choosing. I was lucky to be born into a family of readers. I started my journey of words as most children do, curled in my mother’s lap, listening to her beautiful voice and looking at pictures as she turned the pages. Every Christmas Eve, we were allowed to open one present --- always a book --- and we raced upstairs in our pajamas to read by lamplight as we listened for Santa’s sleigh. It wasn’t until I was a mother myself that I realized the true genius of this tradition: we kids stayed up late into the night…and slept in just a little bit later on Christmas morning.

Obviously, I have a string of books that mattered to me, that changed the way I saw the world. Early on, there were the Oz books by Frank L. Baum, and CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY. These were novels that helped me grow up, showed me that the world could sometimes be a scary and unexpected place. I felt very grown up when I read them, and if I often ran up to Mom in the kitchen afterward and stayed close, she never seemed to mind. Or perhaps she knew that that’s what books are all about --- they take us places and show us things and even terrify us, but we are stronger for it in the end.

But even with all of that, when asked to choose a most important childhood book, the answer is ultimately easy; I can do it without even thinking about it: The Lord of the Rings. When I was 13 years old --- in 1973, the “make love not war” years --- these fantasy novels were the talk of my household. My parents tried repeatedly to get me to read the trilogy. Because I was a teenager, I refused on principle alone. Several times, I attempted to read the first one, but I always put it down. Too many words, I’d say. Too confusing, too slow. And my mother would smile.

Then I got the whole hardcover set for Christmas, and on the next day, I came down with the flu. Well, without school to go to or friends to visit, I started THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, and that was it. Fever? Who cares. Hacking cough? Hardly noticed. I walked into Middle Earth and was never quite the same again. I fell in love with Gandalf and Frodo and Aragorn and Sam (him especially). It was the sheer heroism of the hobbits that slayed me. The friendship and the courage.

I couldn’t wait to share these novels with my son. When he was about 13, I handed him the first one and told him he had to read it. He refused, of course (him being the teenager now), and I understood. One Christmas, I gave him his own hardcover set of the novels, and I inscribed them with the same words my mother had once written to me.

I knew that sooner or later, he’d open that first volume and try again. I knew that when the time was right --- maybe on t

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While books have always been a staple under the Christmas tree, Marcia Muller --- author of the Sharon McCone series, including its most recent installment, LOCKED IN --- reveals how she found one of the greatest presents she'd ever received at her front step instead of inside her holiday stocking, many years ago.


Books were always under the tree on Christmas morning at my house. My parents were fond of them, and they instilled that love of reading in all of us. My earliest memory of those holiday treasures are the Golden Books slender volumes with filigreed spines. And then the Babar the Elephant books; I must have read BABAR AND ZEPHYR a hundred times! In third grade, I was gifted with Felix Salton’s BAMBI’S CHILDREN because I’d worn out the copy in the school library. THE SECRET OF BARNEGAT LIGHT, a mystery centered around the lighthouse at the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey, where we spent our summers, was a big hit --- my first book inscribed by the author, Frances McGuire. Then followed the Judy Boltons and Nancy Drews --- foundations for the adult novels I would one day write.

GONE WITH THE WIND was under the tree when I was I high school, the first “grown up” book I was encouraged to read (although for years I’d been pilfering far racier stuff from my parents’ library). I regret to say I was never gifted with PEYTON PLACE; that I had to read over the course of several sweltering summer days in the attic, where my mom had hidden it spine inward on a dusty shelf.

Years later, in December of 1977, a package arrived at my San Francisco home. Inside nestled a slim volume with a Victorian facade on its dust jacket: EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES, my first published novel.

That was the best Christmas gift of all!

-- Marcia Muller


Check back tomorrow, as Larry Gonick and Steve Luxenberg join us with their holiday traditions and musings on reading preferences.

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In this touching piece about a surprising and meaningful gift from her husband, Amy Bloom --- author of AWAY and whose latest collection of short stories, WHERE THE GOD OF LOVE HANGS OUT, hits stores next month --- illustrates how the books people enjoy can often act as reflections of their character.


When I was a child, printed matter flowed into my house like water: magazines, three newspapers a day, library books by the wagonload (I had a little red wagon and trundled it through the library once a week), my father's crazy journals of the paranormal (in which everything had a greenish glow and levitated), and his stacks of Playboy magazines, which sat right next to the aliens from outer space and gave me even more to think about. The books themselves were gifts (LITTLE WOMEN, MY ANTONIA, A TALE OF TWO CITIES) but if anyone ever gave me one --- and I’m sure my parents did --- I don't remember.

My only true Christmas book-gift came a few years ago. I had fallen in love, embarrassingly late in life, embarrassingly fast, and he and I were standing in a bookstore, buying gifts for everyone in our Chrismukkah continuum. We had talked out our differences, which were so numerous, it was amazing we'd ever crossed paths, let alone fallen in love --- but we knew, the way you know that the baby's coming, or that the ship has sailed, that we would marry. I handed him a book of Jane Kenyon's poems and he read a few, charmed and moved. A good sign, I thought. He picked up THE COLLECTED POEMS OF WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA, flipped through a few pages, and began to read. He put his packages down. He sat down on the floor. I had never said, “She is my absolute favorite poet, if I must choose among all the poets I love and admire.” He sat there, big handsome man, tears streaming down his face while reading my favorite of favorites, "Allegro ma non troppo," which begins, “Life, you're beautiful, (I say)…” Szymborska creates such a realistic, compassionate world of love and life and loss held by her witty way with language that it squeezes my heart every time. He read, there in the store, for a half hour.

He gave it to me at Christmas Eve, when we have Seven Fishes and fill stockings, and we got married in September and the book is on my nightstand still.

-- Amy Bloom


This evening, Kristin Hannah joins us with a recollection of a favorite book from childhood, and the joy she felt in passing it on to her young son.

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Laura Kasischke, author of THE LIFE BEFORE HER EYES and IN A PERFECT WORLD, reminisces about a particular holiday present she'd received as a child that stood out far amongst the heaps of toys she'd been given.


I was an only child in an extended family short on kids, the only niece among many aunts, great aunts, and even a few doting bachelor uncles. You can imagine the Christmas presents, I suppose. There were heaps of them beneath the tree: all manner of talking, walking, wetting, singing dolls. My Barbies had the kinds of wardrobes other girls' Barbies would have ripped my Barbies' eyeballs out for. My Kens had sportscars. My stuffed animals had combs and brushes, rhinestone collars and their own settees.

We weren't rich --- I feel the need to emphasize this before all you middle children from enormous families hate me even more than you already do --- but I was spoiled. I'll admit it. Wildly spoiled. If it hadn't been for a few hard knocks, I'd still probably be thinking that the Christmas season had been invented so that elderly relatives could have the pleasure of coming over and watching me unwrap my presents in the morning.

Where are those presents now?

Well, after those few brilliant Christmases spent together in this world, before old age and illness took my relatives and adulthood's hundred relocations scattered all of my childhood things, the best present I ever got resides inside me:

It is the sweet, sad, beautiful narrative of Laura Ingalls Wilder, which came to me first in a nine-box set of pulpy, simple, sturdy books.

Let me honest and tell you that, along with all the toys, those books have long since slipped away from me in a material sense. But by the time they were lost (or had moldered to ruin in a leaky basement or been sold at a garage sale) I didn't need them any longer. The Big Woods, the Prairie, the Shores of Silver Lake, the Banks of Plum Creek, and the people who lived and loved and suffered there through their exciting moments and their homely moments had taken up residence in me forever. Since the Christmas morning I was blessed with that gift, I have carried those places and those people with me everywhere I've ever gone --- along with that voice, and even the smell of those pages and the bright, inviting covers of those books and the smart box they slid into so satisfyingly.

And it's why I never have to think twice about what will make the best and most memorable gift for even the most spoiled child in my life. I know that after he or she rips off the packaging (maybe just a tad sorry that it's not the latest electronic device) to find a book, I know the gift is still yet to be opened. The gift will be inside the book.

-- Laura Kasischke


Later this afternoon, Sally Koslow shares her favorite Christmas Day activity.

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Lauren Grodstein, author of A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY, describes the thrilling experience of receiving her first "grown-up book" for Hannukah one year, knowing --- even at the age of ten --- that it was one of the best presents she could possibly receive.


Hannukah gifts in the neighborhood where I grew up ranged from the merely elaborate to the cruelly baroque. I remember friends bragging about the four-story dollhouses Hannukah Harry left under the menorah, the bichon frises and the color televisions and the trips to Aruba. In my house, however, the eight nights of Hanukkah were more sedate: latkes and dreidels, songs and candles, and, after dinner, a single, compact, pleasant but restrained present. For me, that present was almost always a book.

Now, it’s not like I didn’t wish for a bichon frise of my very own, but in truth I loved my eight nights of books. My mom (and I knew it was my mom --- there was no Hannukah Harry crap in the Grodstein house) had a way of picking out something I would never have thought to pick for myself but was always precisely what I wanted. She bought me Lois Lowry’s Anastasia books and Paul Zindel’s THE PIGMAN, Ellen Raskin’s THE WESTING GAME, and John Bellairs’s THE HOUSE WITH A CLOCK IN ITS WALLS. But the book I remember enjoying the most was EIGHT MEN OUT by Eliot Asinof, which I got for the first night of my tenth Hannukah, and which took me longer to read than any book I’d previously encountered.

Now, it might seem odd that a book about the Chicago White Sox scandal of 1919 would speak so loudly to a 10 year old in New Jersey in 1986, but I was learning to love baseball at the time --- our house team, the New York Mets, had just won the World Series --- and so everything about baseball seemed crucial to me then. Further, the character of Shoeless Joe Jackson appealed to me the same way Mets left-fielder Darryl Strawberry did --- they were both power hitters with the ability to change the direction of any single game, or even an entire season. But still, EIGHT MEN OUT was about a scandal as much as it was a sport, and it involved all sorts of laws I didn’t quite understand, and people with crazy names like “Kenesaw Mountain Landis.” Reading it, I needed to use a dictionary --- a lot. And I needed to ask my dad a lot of questions.

And this, I suppose, was what I loved most of all about the book: it was the first book anyone ever gave me that treated me like a grown up. It was an adult nonfiction book, about an adult, nonfiction topic, but my mom didn’t give it to me because she had an agenda or because I told her I was up to the challenge. She gave it to me because she thought I’d like it. I did like it. I carried it with me everywhere, and when one fifth-grade classmate brought her new golden hairclips to school, studded with --- I’m not kidding --- real tiny diamonds and pearls, I thought about the book in my bag, the weight of it, its total lack of illustrations. I remember thinking about how I was officially a grown-up now, because I was reading grown-up books. I remember thinking that the library was suddenly a much bigger place. And I remember regarding the hairclips and feeling glad that this time, I’d gotten wha

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Heather Gudenkauf --- author of THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE --- thinks back to one holiday from her childhood, when she learned a valuable lesson from a hasty decision and the help of a favorite book.


The holiday season was always a wonderfully chaotic time in my childhood home. With six children, two adults, a dog, a finch, two gerbils, and several hermit crabs all living under one roof, we had our share of adventures and misadventures. But unmistakably, we always had each other.

One of the most wonderful gifts I received the Christmas I was nine wasn’t from Santa Claus, but from my mom and dad. I could tell by its shape and heft that inside was a box of books. Books were highly valued in our home, but being the youngest of six, I rarely had a brand new, unmarred book of my own. I always received the chocolate-smeared, doodled-on books they didn’t want anymore. On Christmas Eve, with anticipation, I tore into the package and found a box set of Beverly Cleary books including one of my all-time favorites, RAMONA AND HER FATHER. Growing up, I wanted to be Ramona Quimby. I loved her sassiness, I loved her wonderful imagination, and I loved all the predicaments she got herself into and out of. Unfortunately, my personality was more akin to Ramona’s mild-mannered, best friend Howie than to Ramona’s free-spiritedness. While the snow swirled and the wind blew, I spent the remainder of my holiday break ensconced in my toy box, wrapped in a sleeping bag, holding a flashlight and reading my Beverly Cleary books. In RAMONA AND HER FATHER, Ramona managed to get a crown of burs stuck on her head, accused her teacher of having wrinkly elephant ankles, and called the elderly neighbor lady pie face. But in that same book Ramona also managed to convince her father to quit smoking, taught the reader how to make tin can stilts, was the best lamb in the Christmas play even though her costume was made up of old pajamas with faded bunnies on them, and taught me the lesson that family is what is most important.

In a matter of days, I had finished reading my books. Even at the age of nine, I was always on the search for something new to read, so I braved the cold and walked to a local used book store where I could trade my books in for credit toward more books. As I handed over my box of Beverly Cleary novels that my parents had just given me for Christmas, I knew I was doing the wrong thing, but that didn’t stop me. As I went to bed that night, my new books piled by my bedside, I found no joy in the adventures within their pages. I knew how hard my parents worked, I knew how carefully they picked out those books for me, but still I had given them away with little thought. And for what? A few used books, which on closer inspection, had stained pages that smelled liked mildew. I couldn’t sleep that night knowing that my actions hurt my parents’ feelings. The next morning, still feeling guilty, I asked my sister what I should do. “Go back and get them,” she told me simply. And not for the first time, and certainly not the last, I understood the wisdom in my sister’s advice.

I dug into my earnings from shoveling snow and tromped back to the bookstore. After a few frantic moments scanning the shelves in hopes of

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Gesine Bullock-Prado --- owner of Gesine Confectionary in Montpelier VT, and author of the memoir, CONFECTIONS OF A CLOSET MASTER BAKER --- shares memories of the extraordinary Christmases of her childhood, and the very special person responsible for bringing such joy to the holidays.

My mother, I’m convinced to this day, was part elf, imbued by the holiday spirits with the gift of conjuring joy from the seasons. She was German, a woman from the old world, where fairy tales were most often gruesome and fraught with danger but never without boatloads of magic. Even St. Nick --- he was a menacing wraith and not the jolly Saint we know, love, and never fear Stateside. But my mother, she harnessed these elements from her homeland, the scary Santa and the uncensored and bloody Grimm’s tales, and dressed them in fairy dust and celebration.

On December 6th, she pulled all the stops. It’s on this day that Santa comes, not on the 25th. And not only does he come early, he brings a ghoulish friend named Krampus. If you thought a scrawny, red velvet robe-wearing, scrappy bearded saint was scary, wait until you catch sight of his hell-hound helper. He’s one stinky demon, that guy. In many a German household, the matriarchs and patriarchs will enlist some poor schlubs to visit their homes on the 6th dressed as the aforementioned St. Nikolaus and Krampus and scare the hell out of their children. I’ve witnessed it firsthand, both as a child and as an adult.

As a matter of fact, I took my husband Ray to a small hamlet called Traunreuth in the deepest reaches of Bavaria so that he might partake in the fear fest that is St. Nikolaustag. We sat and watched as my cousin invited the dank twosome into her home, her gaggle of children waiting in horror. Each child was made to approach the Yuletide Freddie Kruger and atone for their myriad sins of the past year and maybe, just maybe, get a sack of treats in return. You see, St. Nikolaus brought with him a ledger and there was an accounting for each child’s actions written upon it. “Barbara! On August 16th of this year you promised to make your bed. Yet you left the house to play with your bed still a mess! What do you have to say for yourself!?!?!?!?” You can imagine that for a good week after this kind of intervention, German children everywhere keep their rooms spotless. Ray was suitably horrified.

But my mother, she kept the magic of the moment and took out the terror. She’d never go so far as to enlist a carny to dress in Santa’s rags and scare the bejeezus out of us. Instead, she gave us hints of the bearded one’s presence, exclaiming on cue at 7pm on the 6th that she might have heard something peculiar outside and shouldn’t we go take a look? Lo and behold, a flash of red cloak would round the corner of the house, and before we could take flight and catch whomever the creature was, we’d stop short just outside the door’s threshold in awe. There would be two glorious red stockings overflowing with a sweet bounty that would keep any kid glued in place.

To this day, I’ve never figured out how she stage-directed all her holiday surprises so beautifully. On Easter, the baskets jam-packed with German sweet delicacies would find themselves precariously perched atop the highest

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Hallie Ephron, author of NEVER TELL A LIE and THE BIBLIOPHILE'S DEVOTIONAL, thinks back to her family's first holiday together, and the wonderful tradition they started with the help of two different customs and some really great books.


The December after my daughter Molly was born was the first year that my husband and I did not drive to New York to spend the holidays with family. I’d grown up with Christmas. My husband had grown up lighting Hanukkah candles. With a three-month-old baby, we stayed home in our rented apartment, the first floor of a two-family house, and started to figure out what our own traditions would be.

The day before Christmas, a package arrived addressed to Molly from my father. It was large --- about the size of a basketball --- and heavy. We’d decided to light candles, sing the blessings in Hebrew, and exchange small gifts each night of Hanukkah; but, that box from my dad was the gift that started another tradition: opening presents from my family on Christmas morning.

And what a gift it was. My father, a playwright and screenwriter, had gone to Books & Co., a cozy independent bookstore on Madison at 75th Street that closed in 1997. There, he’d picked out a treasure trove of books for our baby, his first grandchild, to grow into.

Though Molly was barely old enough to suck on the corner of a cover, she’d soon be patting the rabbit’s fur and slipping her finger into the ring hole in Dorothy Kunhardt’s PAT THE BUNNY, a book which I remembered reading to my baby sister, Amy. There were Beatrix Potter’s THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT and Ludwig Bemelmans’s MADELINE, books I knew by heart and which Molly, a few years later, would too. There was THE REAL MOTHER GOOSE, my favorite version with the checkerboard cover and illustrations of Blanche Fisher Wright. A compendium of wonderful illustrated Richard Scarry stories in RICHARD SCARRY’S BEST STORYBOOK EVER, which would be bedtime stories for years to come. An oversized, illustrated A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES. Several Oz books. And more.

I can name them all because when my daughters (we have two now) were grown and living on their own, they went through their books and picked out the ones they wanted to keep. All of Grandpa’s books from our first holiday as a family were keepers.

-- Hallie Ephron


Up next is Melissa Mayhue, who describes an unexpected holiday gift that exceeded all of her expectations.

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Today's guest blogger, Stephen Coonts --- whose latest thriller, THE DISCIPLE, hits stores today --- muses on some of the simple joys of past Christmases, and reminds us of the best way to recapture the magic and wonder of the holiday season.

Please visit Stephen's newly redesigned website for a special treat!


Christmas is the premier holiday, although some men say their favorite holiday is the first day of deer season. For me, Christmas is shopping for presents, wrapping them, the anticipation of giving them, helping Deborah get the turkey into the oven on Christmas morning, aromas wafting from the kitchen, watching children tear open presents with squeals of delight, “Thank you’s” floating on the air, little treasures piling up at their feet, and convivial laughter around the dinner table. Christmas is the joy of being alive and in love with family, even when I was in the Navy during the Vietnam War. Christmas then was only letters from home, but ah, the emotions and memories that came with the letters!

Sometimes, on a rare occasion, we servicemen received more than letters. My eldest daughter, Rachael, was and is my favorite Christmas present. She was born on December 23, and I received the Red Cross notification on Christmas Day.

Other than daughters, books are my favorite present to give or receive. I try to pick just the perfect book for the avid readers on my list, and they try to do the same for me. I can recall Rachael, no more than six or seven, watching me open a book she chose for me and telling me why I would love it. And of course I did, because she knew I would.

My mother used to read to my brother and me at Christmas, and throughout the year, from THE CHILDREN’S ANTHOLOGY OF LITERATURE, a classic illustrated by Andrew Wyeth. I gave Mom’s copy to my children one Christmas many years ago, but somehow it was lost in the shuffles and vicissitudes of life. Several years ago, my brother and I scoured the internet for copies, which we hope to read to our grandchildren. When we do, we will both remember our mother reading to us while we huddled against her, one on each side, looking at Wyeth’s stupendous art.

Christmas is a time to renew your grasp on the magic and wonder of life. Open your heart this Christmas and let life shine in. And when everyone else is in bed, and you need to wind down a little before sleep, read a good book.

-- Stephen Coonts


Tomorrow, Hallie Ephron and Melissa Mayhue both discuss books worth holding onto.

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Ad Hudler, author of SOUTHERN LIVING and MAN OF THE HOUSE, shares a story of a less-than-ideal living situation, and how a well-timed book on Christmas helped to set things right.


We had just moved from Florida to New York with a newborn in tow, and life was crazy. Because my wife had work and I did not, the responsibility of the move fell on me. And before I could go back to work, I had to find some in-home care, so I placed an ad in the newspaper and found Gloria. I wasn't crazy about her, but she was best of the lot: an expressive, Italian mother, who, I'd discover later, had a son in prison.

Our problem was this: Gloria refused to do as I said because I was a man, and, in her opinion, no man could tell her what to do with a house and baby. We fought and fought and fought. She rebelled by eating all my favorite foods from the refrigerator (we'd later discover she had had her stomach stapled). She refused to use a car seat with our daughter. And her idea of cleaning the house meant puffing up the throw pillows.

"Can't you deal with her?" I asked my wife. "She won't listen to me."

"Honey," my wife replied, "Gloria is your direct report. You're responsible for her."

"But I've never managed people before," I said. "I'm a writer. I don't know what I'm doing here."

Christmas came a month later. In my stocking was a book from my wife: THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER, by Kenneth Blanchard and Spencer Johnsons.

I read THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER in one hour, and, in one week, Gloria was gone.

-- Ad Hudler


Tomorrow, Mary Carter and Robert Goolrick discuss two rather memorable reads, and revel in the power of a well-told story.

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Rosalind Noonan, co-author of SNOW ANGELS, fondly looks back on one Christmas, when her young daughter’s only holiday wish was to be able to grant someone else's.


You don’t spend half a century on Earth without acquiring a sleigh chock-full of Christmas memories, but when I sat down and thought about it, sorted through the caroling adventures, dramatic homecomings and sparkling toys, I realized that the fondest memories are those that warm the heart.

One Sunday in early December, my children noticed that a pine tree decorated with paper ornaments had been placed at the front of the church. Being huge fans of Christmas, they asked if we could take a closer look after the service, and we found that each paper ornament contained a name and a desired gift from their Christmas wish list. A woman from the church staff explained that the intended gifts were being collected for elderly and developmentally challenged people the church worked with.

My daughter, Carly, was fascinated by these paper “wishes.” At the time she had just learned to read, and she was intrigued by the secrets each ornament revealed. An elderly woman wanted a soft blanket in white or blue. A single parent was looking for age-appropriate blocks or games for their 18 month old. A woman of 23 asked for warm slippers, size 8. Some wish lists revealed other personal information like size, favorite color or hobby. Carly read every ornament within her reach, gobbling them up like candy.

I was still explaining how this gift fulfillment system worked to my five-year-old son when Carly showed me Bob’s ornament.

“Look at this, Mom. He likes basketball, too, and he needs a warm sweater. Can we get him one?”

According to the card, Bob was a male of undetermined age whose hobbies were basketball and watching TV. His desired item was a warm sweater, size extra-large.

“Each of you can get a gift,” I said. “Is this the one you want?

She nodded. “All these people want something, but Bob needs a sweater. I really want to find him something warm and comfy.”

We went shopping that afternoon, and the questions began: “Cardigan or pullover? Wool was warm, but would it be too itchy for Bob? Fleece okay?”

“I wish we could ask Bob,” Carly said as we decided against a wool and acrylic blend in a color that made my eyes water. One of the department stores was having a sale, but there wasn’t much variety in size XL, and Carly would not settle. When I showed her a stylish but thin sweater, she shook her head. “It needs to be warm,” she said, and we moved on.

When at last we found the right sweater --- a soft pullover in a blue and turquoise pattern --- Carly hugged it all the way to the register. “It’s so soft.” She smiled. “And it will keep Bob warm.”

Through her eyes, I could imagine Extra Large Bob opening his gift on Christmas morning. I could see him shrugging it on, rubbing the sleeves. I wondered if he would sense the philanthropic connection he’d stirred in my daughter. If only Bob could see the six-year-old girl smoothing the sweater

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Donna VanLiere --- author of the bestselling holiday tales THE CHRISTMAS SHOES, THE CHRISTMAS BLESSING and THE CHRISTMAS SECRET --- humorously recalls having to muddle through her young daughter's fear of spiders to introduce her to the cherished E.B. White tale, CHARLOTTE'S WEB, which has since become one of her favorite books.


Things change when you have children. I had always heard that but never really understood it until I had a few of my own of my own. A reporter recently asked me what my favorite part of Christmas was, and I said that it was seeing it through the eyes of my children. It sounds hokey to anyone who isn't a parent, I know, but Christmas is magical and mysterious and miracles abound when it is shared with a child.

We started reading books to our kids when they were just old enough to use the edge of the cover as a teething ring. Several books line our shelves with tiny teeth marks in them, but I’m convinced a love for reading starts at that young age. Each day before nap and bedtime, it became ritual for them to run to the shelves and pull out several books to read. My oldest is now eight and the ritual hasn’t changed. When the kids were infants, we started wrapping books for Christmas presents, and to my chagrin, none of them have ever opened one and said, “Wow! A new book! I can’t wait to read it!” but has rather simply tossed it aside for the new Barbie or the truck with the obnoxious horn. But, it’s the book that stands up to time while batteries die, and Barbie loses an arm to the dog, and her hair gets tangled and ratty.

When my daughter Gracie was three, we wrapped up CHARLOTTE’S WEB for her at Christmas. It had a bright red cover and a picture of Fern, Wilbur, and Charlotte on the front. She looked at it and said, “Does that pig talk?” I assured her he did. “Does the spider talk, too?” I was getting excited! I assured her that Charlotte most certainly talked. She threw it aside. “Then I don’t want to read it. I don’t like spiders.” I put the book on the shelves and gave her days --- okay, weeks --- to play with her new toys and forget about the spider comment. One afternoon at nap time, I announced that we’d be reading a brand new book. I pulled CHARLOTTE’S WEB off the shelf and held it aloft like a spokesmodel for a food processor: “Ta-da! Isn’t it great?!”
“I don’t want to read that,” Gracie said. “It has that spider in it that talks, and I don’t like spiders.” It had been weeks. How did she remember that?

“But it was one of your Christmas books, and it’s so sweet and funny with lots of animals and a little girl who saves a pig,” I said, using as many words I could think of that would capture the attention of a three year old. “And Charlotte isn’t scary. She’s Wilbur’s best friend.”

She was wary. Could I be trusted? “Does it happen at Christmas?” she asked.

My mind raced for any Christmas scenes. “I don’t remember exactly but let’s read and find out.”

Again, the look of concern. She got the book for Christmas, but it doesn’t take place on Christmas so that means there’s no gifts or candy or Santa anywhere in the story, and there’s that issue of the talking spider again.

“Okay,” she said. “But if it’s scary, I’m stopping

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Below, Robert Hilburn --- author of CORNFLAKES WITH JOHN LENNON --- shares a tale of an unwanted gift, and how a mysterious baseball player changed his outlook on reading forever.


I wasn’t very happy the time one of my aunts sent me a book for Christmas rather than another passenger car for my new electric train set. I was in grade school in Los Angeles, and I didn’t have much interest in the book, even though there was a drawing of a baseball player on the cover. My reading matter leaned toward Plastic Man comic books or Mad Magazine. So I put the book in the closet.

Then one day a friend at school told me this great story about a pitcher on the Brooklyn Dodgers, Roy Tucker, who was so good he threw a no-hitter, only to hurt his arm and then battle his way back to the majors as a star slugger.

I was a big baseball fan and was surprised I hadn’t heard of this guy Tucker. I raced home and combed through my baseball bubble gum cards to see if I had a Roy Tucker card. When I couldn’t find him, I turned to my baseball history book but still, no Tucker.

I began to suspect that my friend had made up the whole story.

When I confronted him during recess the next day, he laughed. Tucker, he said, was a character in a book of fiction called THE KID FROM TOMKINSVILLE. He took me to the school library to show me the book by John R. Tunis, but it was checked out.

That evening I asked my mom to take me to the city library, and she was surprised because the only books I ever read were textbooks --- and that was begrudgingly.

“This is a baseball book,” I told her. “It’s by a writer named John R. Tunis.”

She looked at me quizzically and then headed to my closet. Beneath layers of baseball gloves, comic books, and shoes, she found the book my aunt had sent me: THE KID FROM TOMKINSVILLE.

I began reading the book that night and found myself racing home from school each day that week to read more --- even skipping my usual radio and TV shows.

This was long before the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles; a time when the only chance to see a major league baseball game was on Saturday mornings.

But Tunis told such a dramatic story that you felt you were actually watching Roy Tucker on the mound and in the batter’s box. After I finished it, I went to the school library and found several more baseball books by Tunis, and I read them all. Each was like a little treasure. I felt this terrible void when I couldn’t find more. I tried to go back to listening to "The Lone Ranger" or "The Green Hornet" on the radio, but it wasn’t the same.

From that point on, I never looked back. I don’t know whatever happened to that electric train, but I held on to those John R. Tunis books for years.

And every Christmas, I’d look forward to more gifts from my aunt; books whose themes eventually went far beyond sports. They made me fall so in love with writing that I could think of nothing more exciting than someday sitting down at a typewriter myself.

-- Bob Hillburn


Tomorrow, Donna VanLiere shares a sweet story about reading to her daughter, wh

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Dolen Perkins Valdez --- whose debut novel, WENCH, hits stores next month --- recalls receiving a very treasured copy of her favorite book one Christmas, and takes the opportunity to thank her favorite author for changing her life.


I owe so much to the writer Toni Morrison. When I first started scribbling stories, I wrote about light things, things that didn't upset anyone too much. I also set my stories in faraway places. In essence, I did everything I could to avoid the profound emotional terrain of my native South. I loved the American South and everything about it: the food, the people, the musical speech. Yet, I was afraid of it. I was afraid that I was too close to it to reveal its complexity. Most of all, I was afraid to unveil the corners of its racial history, and I was not sure that I had the courage to write about it.

I read Toni Morrison's BELOVED while an undergraduate at Harvard in a seminar led by renowned African American Studies scholar Henry Louis Gates, and yet I still failed to grasp it. It was not my professor's fault; I was not ready for Morrison's unflinching eye, her intricate entanglements, or her deep sense of history. Yet when I reread it after graduating, it changed my life. As I read the last sentence, I sat stunned, speechless, moved beyond words. I knew that the writing of this book had taken Morrison to a place where few had dared enter. She had dipped her pen into the hornet's nest of American racial history, and the result was a story unlike anything I'd ever read.

I have often shared this story of my writing journey through Toni Morrison's work with my husband. I told him that I wanted so badly to meet her one day and tell her how she inspired me. Of course, I am sure there are many young writers who would like to do the same. That did not lessen my sense of sadness that in all probability I would never get to meet this giant of letters, given my own literary obscurity. One year on Christmas Eve, my husband called me into the living room, sat me down on the couch and handed me a package. It was a shirt-sized box, and I had no idea what was in it. I ripped off the wrapping paper, watching his eyes as I did it. He was literally trembling with excitement. Inside the box was a signed first edition of Toni Morrison's BELOVED. I felt my spirit rise out of my body. I ran a finger down the cover, turned the book over in my hands. And then I felt something. It was as if Morrison was right there beside me, touching my hand, saying, "Go ahead and open it. It's for you."

And so I say now, in this public forum, "Thank you, Ms. Morrison. Thank you."

-- Dolen Perkins Valdez


Coming up later on this afternoon, Robert Hilburn describes his love of baseball and how a fictional player resonated with him far more than a real one.

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