A true Christmas story

A true Christmas story.


I brought pounds of meat to office for a staff lunch and realized we didn't have any lettuce, so I went by the nearby grocery store.

I approached an empty checkout line and this young girl with the name Charlene affixed to her store apron was reading a big book. I mean, a BIG book, one-tonner at least. I didn't get the title but commented how nice it was to see young people read.

"I'm not that young," she said. "I've got a four-year-old son."

She was pretty in a beaten-down sort of way, with bright-blue ornamental tattoos on her left shoulder and bicep.

As she was checking me out, I asked, inappropriately, "You look so young. How old are you?"

"20!" She said it defiantly.

"I think it's so neat that you find time to read. I read about 50 books a year."

"That's all I asked my family to give me for Christmas," she said. "Books."

I checked out and went to the office, picked up copies of my two novels, "Reveille" and
"Uncertain Times", wrote something I wanted to be profound to her, and took them back to the store.

She was stocking and I walked up and handed her the books. "Merry Christmas."

She took the books and looked at the covers. "These are for me?"

"Merry Christmas, Charlene. These are a gift from the author."

"The author?"

I turned "Reveille over" to my picture. "This guy."

She looked at the picture and looked back at me.

"Merry Christmas and keep reading."

I left her crying in the aisle.

I didn't make it to the car before I joined her.

Being with family at Christmas will be great.

But Charlene made my Christmas.