8 Christmas Stories
Including ‘A Letter to Santa’
by Ray Mathews
Cover Art by Ray Mathews
Published by Smashwords
Copyright © 2009 by Ray Mathews
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you share it. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book and others by Ray Mathews are available in print at many online retailers
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8 Christmas Stories
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Table of Contents
Santa Clothes and the Littlest Tailor
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A Letter To Santa
Seven-year-old John Clark finished cutting cardboard to envelope size.
Done! he thought with a sigh of relief. He gathered his cardboard, envelope, and clean sheet of letter paper and slipped from the house, careful not to let Tildy or Tim hear him.
He hurried down the steps to the backyard. Except for his footfalls in the slushy snow, the only sound was a freight train whistling in the distance.
John shivered and hugged his skimpy jacket to him, careful not to wrinkle his paper. His fingers clutched a ball-point pen in his left pocket.
Free at last! thought John; free of his four-year-old sister, Tildy, with her never-ending questions about Santa Claus, and free of his twelve-year-old brother, Tim, who made it difficult for John to have any Christmas secrets.
But John would keep this secret - his letter to Santa. Tim said there was no Santa Claus, and would laugh if he found out. But John knew different – all it took was belief, and he had that.
Tomorrow was Christmas Day. The post office six blocks away was as far as seven-year-old John had ever gone on his own.
But he had made up his mind! He would get this letter to Santa. He even had cardboard to stiffen the envelope so his letter would get to Santa in good shape. He didn't care what Tim said. Even if there is no Santa Claus, this letter is going to be mailed. Sometimes a guy has to do what a guy has to do.
He thought over the words he had practiced...Dear Santa: Please send my Daddy, Matthew Clark, home for Christmas. Yours truly, John Clark. Maybe the postman would help him write it if John had trouble.
John remembered his mother's words last night.
"Your daddy can't be here Christmas day, children. The Company sent him to Munson's Market in Leslie to do the books, and he can't get home till the day after Christmas. You understand, don't you?"
No! John wanted to shout, I don’t understand. I want my Daddy home for Christmas — like other families.
He ran down the slushy street – and almost collided with an older girl. Her oversized sweater flapped against her knees, and she hopped from foot to foot.
"Have to get to the drugstore for a prescription for my mom 'fore they close, but my foot's nearly froze from the slush," she said, lifting her wet shoe. "Have a big hole in the bottom, and the drugstore's still two blocks."
John remembered how Daddy folded cardboard inside an old shoe and said they were as good as new.
He hesitated, looked at his cardboard and then at her wet shoes. He shook his head, He didn’t really need the cardboard to stiffen his letter to Santa. He handed her his cardboard. "Here," he said, "fold that double and put it inside over the hole. That'll keep out the cold for a while."
She looked at the small boy and smiled. "Hey, thanks." She folded the cardboard and jammed it into her shoe, stomped on the makeshift sole, cried, "It works!" and dashed off. "Thanks again, kid. That'll get me to the drugstore and back."
John watched her go, ran down the street, stopped, and squinted into the dim light. Ahead an old man raised his skeletal head from a garbage can and limped toward John. His ragged trousers dragged in the snow. An old suit coat stretched tight against his thin frame. He looked half frozen in the sharp, cold night air.
"Can't find no dry paper to start my fire. Plenty of wood, but only two matches — can't take a chance on wet paper," he whispered. He peered at John. "You got any dry paper, young fella?"
John backed away, shook his head, and clutched his Santa Claus letter paper behind him. The old man shivered in the cold...
John finally relented and held his sheet of paper out to the old man.
"Yeah, that's all I need. One sheet of dry paper will do 'er." He crinkled John's paper into a wad, stuffed it under the small sticks in the barrel, and struck a match. In moments the sticks caught fire and he added larger wood.
"See? That's all I needed — just a dry piece a paper. Thanks, young fella. Thanks a lot." The old vagrant warmed his hands over the fire. “Want to warm your hands over my fire, young man?”
John shook his head, watched his paper go up in smoke, and trudged down the alley holding his envelope. He gripped the pen tightly.
Now how would he write his letter to Santa? he wondered. Maybe the post office will have a piece of paper I can use. John hurried on toward the post office two blocks away.
He passed a street light and saw a young boy about his own age who kneeled and searched in the snow.
"Oops, dropped another one," the boy cried in frustration.
John moved closer. "What're you doing?" he asked.
The boy glanced up and poured a mound of pennies, nickels, and dimes into both hands.
"My Christmas money, man...to buy a present for my mom. I keep dropping the coins. They just squeeze through my fingers. There’s too many of them."
"Put the coins in your pocket," John suggested.
"Can't. My brother's old trouser pockets got holes in 'em," he explained, "and I can't afford to lose any coins 'cause I have just enough for mom's present."
John looked at the coins in the small hands. He looked at the envelope in his cold hands. With a sigh he held out his envelope.
"Here. Put your coins in here. Then tuck in the flap for safety."
The boy sniffed and let the coins dribble into the envelope.
"Hey, that works! Now I can stuff it in my old pocket and it won't fall out. Thanks a bunch, man," he yelled as he skipped down the street into the darkness.
John stood under the street light and looked at his empty right hand and watched his envelope disappear. His cardboard, paper, and envelope were gone. He pulled out his pen and stared at it. Not much use going to the post office now, he thought.
"Sure and that's just what I need, son," came a deep voice. He whirled to find a policeman approaching. "Dropped my pen somewhere. Can I borrow your pen, young man? I'm Officer Murphy. What's your name?"
"John Clark, sir," he said, handing the officer his pen.
Murphy walked to the curb and began to write a ticket. "Parked in a fire zone, he is, lad," said Murphy shaking his head. He studied John. "Shouldn't you be home eatin' dinner or watchin' TV or somethin', lad? It's almost six o'clock. Pretty late for a young fella to be out."