“Tell us, Richard, which of the senses do you think are most affected by Christmas.”
I looked over at Keri. “The taste buds,” I said.
Keri rolled her eyes.
“No. I take it back. I would say the sense of smell. The smells of Christmas. Not just the food, but everything. I remember once, in grade school, we made Christmas ornaments by poking whole cloves into an orange. I remember how wonderful it smelled for the entire season. And then there’s the smell of perfumed candles, and hot wassail or creamy cocoa on a cold day. And the pungent smell of wet leather boots after my brothers and I had gone sledding.The smells of Christmas are the smells of childhood.”
My words trailed off into silence as we all seemed to be caught in the sweet glaze of Christmastime memories and Mary nodded slowly as if I had said something wise.
THE CHRISTMAS BOX
CHRISTMAS AFTERNOON WE were lounging around my in-laws’ house after dinner when I noticed my father-in-law (who had since decided that I was okay) pick up a copy of my book to examine it. I suspected he would soon put it down. He didn’t. A few hours later I walked into the kitchen to find Keri and her sister laughing. “Ask Dad what he thinks of your book,” Keri said.
“Why?”
“He came in crying.”
Just then Larry walked back in. I suspect he had overheard his daughters, as he eyed us all grimly.
“What did you think of my book?” I asked.
“Don’t push it,” he said sternly. Then, as he walked away, he said, “It’s a damn good book.”
That evening, back at home, I received a phone call from one of my brothers. Given my family history, I fully expected a comment along the lines of “Rick, you have very poor punctuation.” Instead he said softly, “Your little book has changed my life.” The next day I received a similar phone call. And the next day. And the next. Every day that week someone called to share with me feelings about the book.
One of those calls was more important than I realized at the time. Three houses down from ours lived a friend of mine named John Stringham. John was an intellectual property attorney. I had given him a copy of the book, as I had several other neighbors.
John had accepted my book graciously (the same way one might accept a tuna casserole from a neighbor) but, he later confessed, doubted its merit.
One evening, out of curiosity, he began to read it. He finished it an hour later, in tears. He told his wife that she too needed to read the book. A few days later she woke him at two-thirty in the morning. She was crying hysterically.
“Is it true?” she asked.
He had no idea what she was talking about.
“That Christmas book. Is it true?”
The next day John came by the house. He said that he had noticed the copyright notice on the book but asked if I had taken the time to register it.
“No. It’s just for my daughters.”
“I think you better register this. I’ll tell you what. I’ll do it for you for free. There’s a twenty-dollar federal fee that you can pay, but if not, I’ll pay it myself.”
•
A few days later I received another phone call about the book. “You don’t know me,” the woman started, “but I’ve just finished reading your book and I thought it was wonderful. I just wanted to tell you how much your story meant to me.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Where did you get a copy of my book?”
“A friend of mine lent it to me.” She told me her friend’s name, which I also did not recognize. I realized that my book had been passed beyond my circle of family and friends. Out of curiosity I took a notepad and called all those I had given copies to and asked them with whom they had shared the book. Then I called them, and so on. I learned that in the four weeks since Christmas, those twenty copies had been read more than a hundred and sixty times.
Dear Richard,
I was deeply moved by your book, The Christmas Box. It is a beautiful story and I cried while reading it. The Christmas Box was a connection to my recent tragedy only a mere three months ago, right before Christmas.
On December 16, 1994, I labored and delivered a beautiful baby girl whom we named Belle. She was a stillborn. This experience has been and continues to be one of the most painful, intense, and lonely experiences I have ever gone through. In my incredible shock, pain, and grief I somehow survived the Christmas holidays with my children, my husband, and his family. Hearing certain Christmas carols brought me to tears. The pain was overwhelming. Your book helped me with one of my biggest fears. I wondered, will I ever enjoy Christmas again? I will always miss Belle, and Christmas will always remind me of her but I will see joy in Christmas again. Your message helped me to see that. Thank you.
About four days after Belle’s birth, I had a very profound dream. A beautiful angel with a flowing white gown came into my bedroom and reached over me. She picked up baby Belle and then floated out of the room with her. She was very reassuring. The dream was very real and felt very right.
I look forward to visiting the Angel Monument in Salt Lake City and laying a white flower at its base. Thank you for sharing your story, The Christmas Box.
Sincerely,
Bege Reynolds
