The Christmas MEGAPACK ®. Nina Kiriki Hoffman

eying away from its heavy wire holder. “You’ll be out here all day if we don’t.”

      You go along with it, deciding the guy isn’t trying to be rude. The tree looks pretty good. But you look closer after he has dragged it to the cutting table, where he will quickly square it with a chainsaw. In the nick of time, you spy a whole colony of fire ants coursing up and down the bark! The man sees your anguish.

      “Here,” he offers as he manhandles your baby back off the table and proceeds to bang its trunk into the asphalt five, six, seven times with brutish force. “There!” he says with an air of accomplishment. “Got rid of ninety percent of ’em right there! Ha!”

      “We got to get us some bug spray out here,” another worker mentions as he walks by. You watch the parking lot turn a golden brown and then begin to sort of undulate. You then step in very close to the base of the pine, to get the best look you can. There are at least five hundred of the infernal insects left on the tree! You suddenly imagine seeing the little happy things dancing and singing carols around a limb decorated with gossamer dragonfly wings. They’re exchanging presents of grains of sand and various other building materials, and eating cake and cookie crumbs....

      You shake yourself out of the weird reverie which will soon seal your fate with this tree in sudden absence of the required savvy. You quickly set your face as flint, and halt the man just as he fires up the chainsaw and is about to square.

      “I can’t bring a nest of fire ants into my house,” you state authoritatively above the roaring din, and the guy gets a look on his countenance somewhere between disgust with you for being so pernickety, embarrassment turning into a who-cares attitude, and fear that he’s about to lose you as a customer. It’s two and a half weeks before Christmas, and both his lots are still full of dead and dying Christmas Trees. And he’s not the only vendor in town. He’s challenged by at least fifteen other full lots each sporting two to three hundred trees. And then there’s the people who prefer the artificial variety!

      You don’t care for this crew as much as you did for the lone backwoods fellow last year who, when you asked him when the trees had been cut, he answered

      “Oh, all ’bout the same time.”

      “But when were they cut?” you rephrased, thinking he misunderstood you.

      “Well, all ’bout the same day,” he muttered.

      You had paused, and felt an amused smile break over your lips, which you tried to hide in order not to make him feel belittled.

      “So,” you pressed him, “what date were they cut?”

      “Um...Townsgimn’,” he mumbled.

      “Uh, what was that?”

      “Oh, ’bout, ahemmmm...Thanksgivin’,” he restated as he dropped his head and turned away.

      Anyway, this year you’ve looked thoroughly over their first lot, and the trees all seemed to be dying. You’ve ambled over to their other lot, and the trees all seemed to be dying. But you roam around in that one for an extended amount of time, and that’s where you nearly buy the portable ant bed. You’re not hungry, but you’re losing energy nonetheless, so, in desperation, you wander back over to the first lot—the one you left because, for a second there, you got to where you couldn’t see the trees for the forest. You’re back now, and these beauties have either just been placed there in your absence, or are in far better condition than the graveyard you’ve just exited. You spy one tree resting in a large puddle of water; a real plus! If not for the large hole on its one side, the canary-yellow needles and the vibrant colony of ants nesting in its limbs, you’d take it.

      Bewildered, you turn around a few times. Hey! You almost immediately spy one you like! It’s a striking, rotund seven-footer. You know because you’ve brought along your trusty tape measure, which the guy on the floor, so to speak, runs over and holds at the apex while you drag it down to the foot. Yep, that’s the one. It’s dark green, lush, straight and, well, ant-free. You know this by kicking the trunk very hard with your toe several times, and then getting down on your hands and knees to watch for the terrible little creatures, which don’t appear. You’ll take it!

      You’re proud of yourself again this year. You’ve once more entered the hallowed Halls of Americana and purchased yet another beauty of a Tree. But not only that, you’ve done it with a sure-fired savvy and a quick eye for shysters who’ll unload any tree on the lot off on you. Any tree at all.

      * * * *

      “Good mornin’! Pick any tree at all, sir! Two full lots. Hey! Here’s a nice one right ch’here! Prettiest one we got!”

      THE GIFT, by Marilyn “Mattie” Brahen

      I have been an unofficial elf most of my life, helping people quietly whenever they came across my path. I also hope to help others...somehow...through my writing, but on that early evening one December, my elven gifts were the ones apparently being called on.

      Initially I had no more intention to intervene than anyone else on the train platform. He stood near the exit steps of the elevated train in the Frankford section of Northeast Philadelphia. He had the prerequisite ruddy jowls, cascading white curly hair reaching to his shoulders and covering his lower face and chest in a sumptuous beard. His Santa suit looked authentic, and I smiled as he got off the El two cars down from mine with other rush hour travelers.

      I headed for the exit still smiling when the jolly old geezer approached one passenger then another as they hurried past, avoiding him as he called out: “Excuse me? Could you help me?”

      Flurries of booted feet, hunched overcoats and tightly clutched handbags. He delayed a man in a long gray woolen coat.

      “Excuse me, sir? Won’t you please help me?”

      The man laughed, heading down exit steps, throwing “Go home, Pops. You’re drunk!” over his shoulder.

      The old fellow stood on the platform, perplexed and appearing indignant at the man’s remark. People jostled by him. He held up his arms in a plea. “Please. I’m trying to get home. Won’t somebody help me?”

      I watched the faces of the other travelers. Some were averted, some smiled, others grinned wildly. But they all drifted down the stairs.

      I found I couldn’t desert him. It may be a blessing or it may be stupidity, but I believe in magic. In magic in a material world.

      I couldn’t rid myself of the impish thought that this was Santa Claus. Saint Nicholas. Kris Kringle. That oversized employer of elves and reindeer. Ho, Ho, Ho!

      My elfish bent asserted itself. Reason flew off into the cold December sky.

      “I’ll help you,” I called.

      He turned his head and looked at me as if he recognized me, then walked over with a polite stately nod. “I thank you, young lady.”

      “You’re welcome. What’s the problem?”

      “The problem, yes.” He resumed nodding in the droll manner of one who’s caused his own precarious situation. “Well, I seem to have been given some very wrong directions.” He held up one white-gloved hand, first finger extended. “That’s the first problem.”

      “Well, we can try to get you directions to wherever you’re heading. But what else is wrong?”

      A blush heightened his already rouge-tinged cheeks and forehead. “I’m afraid I’m temporarily embarrassed.”

      “Huh?”

      “I’ve been robbed.”

      “That’s terrible,” I commiserated cautiously. “Did you tell a policeman?”

      “Well, I’m afraid I hadn’t realized it until....” He collected his thoughts. “You see, I was visiting Philadelphia, and having conducted my business here sought out a cab to drive me to the airport. But none of your cabs would stop.” He shook his head. “Must be the suit. Doesn’t inspire folk