Devon Pendleton

It was December, I was about eight and my good friend Charlotte and I were having a heated school bus discussion about what we Liked Best About Christmas (as if the answer weren’t obvious). “I like the presents!” She said candidly. I was about to concur giddily when I pictured my disapproving mother. Had she been listening, I knew the appropriate answer had to with the a special birth, not gifts. Unlike most of my friends, I went to church and knew better (I found out later in life many of my friends were Jewish) so I hedged. “That’s not the only good thing….the food’s good too.”

Yes, the food. And truth be told, Christmas Eve service was not half bad as far as church goes. But to my selfish, materialistic eight-year-old self, presents were the raison d’etre of solstice. And perhaps the best gift of all, the most highly-anticipated event of the season, was Grandma’s book box.

In my young eyes, my father’s mother was a woman of exceptional taste. She dressed immaculately, always smelled nice, loved horses, stocked her pantry with Apple Jacks and had the most beautiful snow-white updo I’d ever seen. She was spectacularly generous to her 21 grandchildren, shaping our minds not only with sophisticated conversation (grandma never talked down to us) but with her deep appreciation for children’s books. Not only did she have her very own floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stocked with musty treasures to peruse, she shared the wealth with an annual shipment of the latest and greatest in children’s literature.

I was grateful for the books at the time. I liked the stories, loved the pictures and most of all, adored their smell. But my appreciation for them now is tenfold. While I don’t own any of them anymore, there is nothing more comforting than re-discovering them in bookshops, flipping through the familiar images and finding that I still have many passages committed to memory. So while I’m not (yet) in a position to send a book box to a young family, I can still share a few favorites:

1. “Go Dog Go” by Philip D. Eastman

Admittedly, Grandma did not give this to me, nor am I sure she would approve (it’s no Dr. Seuss) but I’m including it here because it is the book that taught me to read. The book that I sat with one steamy summer day- the day I realized my parent’s time and attention was limited so if I wanted stories I better learn to read- sounding out words, red-faced and sweating. I can acutely remember the searing frustration every time I came to page 5 and the line “It is hot up here in the sun.” The word “here” bedeviled me, it made zero phonetic sense. But if you could get past “here” you’d move on to the reliably enthralling “Do You Like My Hat?” vignette featuring an amorous mutt trying to impress a snooty poodle by wearing outlandish hats. Priceless.

2. Good Dog Carl by Alexandra Day

Yes, another dog book. This one, about a hulking Rottweiler who tends to his mistress’s baby while she’s out shopping, is no narrative masterpiece. But the finely-wrought drawings- of Carl “serving” lunch on the floor, bathing baby Madeline- are lush and sweetly realistic. A gentle bear of a dog keeping watch over his cherubic charge fit my animal-loving ideal of how the world should be.

3. The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats

The cover says it all. A little boy named Peter ventures around his neighborhood after the season’s first snowfall. No plot, really, but no matter. Every one of Peter’s observations- of snowbanks, footprints, the tragedy of melting- jibed with my own snowy explorations as a little kid.  Vivid, simple drawings made it a repeat favorite. And reassuring to know I wasn’t the only one who had to wear a stupid snowsuit.

4. Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman

Ok, I know what you’re thinking. Politically-incorrect at best, racist at worst, this tale of an Indian boy who outsmarts a mean pack of tigers was (is) nonetheless one of my favorites. It wasn’t until late into adulthood that its controversial overtones- use of the word “Sambo,” crude illustrations- dawned on me. And while it was a little shocking to know the book I loved so much growing up was considered racist, I think a better description might be “wildly outdated.” To most innocent young readers, Sambo was a hero who managed to turn talking tigers into butter. Even better, Sambo’s mom served up the tiger butter at dinner as an accompaniment to pancakes. Pancakes for dinner (with butter no less) was the only part of the book my 6-year-old self could see as being possibly controversial.

5. Tasha Tudor’s The Night Before Christmas

Far and away my favorite Christmas book, Tudor’s signature fairy-tale illustrations make the time-honored tale simply glow. Heaven for me will be straight out of a Tasha Tudor drawing, full of rosy-cheeked babies, cozy farm houses and chubby Corgis. Her potbellied Santa Claus was the  one I imagined stuffing stockings downstairs- the guy who had a party at every stop and treated his reindeer like family.

There are so many more- maybe another installment. Happy Christmas to all.