I passed my first bell ringer for the Salvation Army yesterday, and last night, I saw several homes in my area already decorated with Christmas lights. So as I pondered what to write today, my thoughts turned to Christmas.
When I was in third or fourth grade, I received one of the best Christmas presents of my life – I got an entire boxed set of Laura Ingalls Wilder books.
I loved these books. By the time I received the set, I’d already read all the books, probably multiple times. But that didn’t matter. The fact that I had my very own collection was a really big deal. The books smelled new and were in perfect condition, and fit together inside a special display box. And I cherished them. They captured my heart and my imagination.
I remember Christmases in the Big Woods with only a peppermint candy stick in a sock stocking for Laura and Mary, and the Christmas that Laura got her rag doll, Charlotte. There was the Christmas on the prairie where Mr. Edwards crossed the swollen creek, and the Christmas when Almanzo braved a blizzard to get home to see Laura. (Probably the first ‘romance’ I ever read!)
Today, the collection is still complete, though the pages of the books show their years with yellowed edges, a few dog-eared. I rarely flip through them anymore, and they didn’t seem to touch my daughter the way they did me, although she, too, has always been an avid reader. These books from my childhood are still part of my library, sitting in a place of honor on my shelves, and I love having them.
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