We had finished reading A Christmas Carol.  We were done with baking cookies, trimming trees, hanging lights, singing carols, and watching reruns of Miracle on 34th Street.  We had played games, eaten too many treats, and even filled the dog's stocking with extra-large Milk Bonz.  Christmas wasn't even here yet, and something was missing.  Something, but what?
      Charlie and I sat silently staring at the gas fireplace.  Sprawled on the floor in the fire's too- perfect flickering light I reached somberly for my tea and raised the mug to my lips, only to choke on cold, brown leaves.  Charlie looked over at me.  I got up saying, "Something's missing."
      "What?" He asked.
      "I wish I knew.  We've done everything to generate some spirit of the season and I feel like a flat pancake."
      "Pancakes are supposed to be flat."
      "Yes," I responded to his insensitive comment, "but I'm not supposed to feel that way.  I'm going out for a walk.  Wanna come?"
      Together we wrapped our precious bundle of flesh in blankets, hoods, and mittens.  Charlene Hunter Louis drooled happily over my down coat as Charlie packed her into the baby backpack.  One more layer of blanky on top and we were ready to go.
      "Charlie, there's one more day before Christmas.  We've simply got to do something that puts the spirit back into the holiday."
      "You mean the spirit back in you, don't you?"
      "I suppose you're right."
      "So, what's missing?"
      "I wish I knew.  It just seems, well, like the basic ingredients are there, mixed up and ready to bake, but the dough's not rising.  When I finished up at the Mall today, all I had was a hefty bunch of gadgets wrapped in fancy paper.  There was no spirit inside all that glitter.  The packaging just did not contain the right stuff."
       The night was cold.  Our breath hung in the air and with each step we left behind small clouds in our wake.  Charlie bent briefly over Charlene to check for life and found all that a sleeping 4-month-old is likely to show.  We headed down toward the river's edge where the town had built a trail.  Steam rose from the water into the chill air and drifted around the willows. I saw someone coming toward us.
      "Good evening.  Fine night for a walk about, eh?"  The stranger fairly perked.  He was wrapped in only a thin jacket and he had his hands in his pockets and his arms held tight to his sides.  From under his dirty cap, I could see long hair pulled back in a pony tail.  He probably hadn't washed it in a week or more.  I thought he was just some hippie, hanging out, looking for a handout.  He pulled one hand from a pocket and started to reach toward me.
      "I'd like to give you something," he said. 
      Charlie and I had the same reaction.  I could see him stiffen beside me.
      Charlie reached for his wallet and began to pull out a five-dollar bill, when the man repeated himself.
      "No.  I'd like to give you something."
      "Um, well, I, uh I mean we really don't need anything.  We were just out for a walk and...."
      "I know you were.  But you're out looking for something, too. "
      He was addressing me directly.  How did he know?
      "I can see it in your face,"  He said, without my asking.
      He opened his hand and there was a photo.  I reached forward and picked it up from the palm of his hand.  The print was scratched and one corner was torn off.  In faded colors it showed a small child seated in sand at the beach.  The child was covered with ice cream running down his cherubic cheeks, the remains of a cone in his hands.  Charlie looked over my shoulder at the photo and Charlene wiggled a little, then settled back down.
      "Who is it?" I asked.
       The long-haired guy turned around and waved us to follow him.  Charlie and I exchanged glances, but followed cautiously behind.  When he started talking, we had to walk closer to hear.
      "He's cute, huh?  Looks like he's got a serious sweet tooth.  Chocolate's already his favorite.  Can you tell?"
        I looked back at the photo, dark drippings running down the chin and onto the chest of the little boy in the picture.  In the distance behind him were old cars, easily dating the picture about forty or fifty years old.
      "That picture's almost 50 years old now," said our guide, who turned left off the trail and started down toward the river. 
      We walked over brambles and weeds and Charlie whispered over to me.  "I'm not so sure about this guy.  I think we should head home, maybe call the cops."
      Just then we came to a clearing.  The river was babbling in the background, not much water in it this time of year.  Instead of a river it sounded like a little creek.  There were ice fingers reaching from the rocks into the slow-moving water.  The soft sound was mesmerizing in the calm, chill air, like listening to a fire crackle.  A real fire.
      Charlie said, "I think we'd better be getting home now.  Our baby may be getting cold."
      The stranger bent under a bush and pulled out a beat up backpack.  He said, "You can leave any time you'd like, but there's just one thing I'd like you to have."
      "What's that?"  I asked, but he didn't appear to hear as he teased safety pins from the fabric where the pack's zipper had separated.  He pulled a blanket from the pack and spread it on the cold ground.  There was a fist-sized hole in the wool near one edge — burned or moth-eaten, I couldn't be sure.  He pulled his worn jacket closer around his shoulders as he ruffled through his pack.  Charlie and I stood near the blanket.  Charlie, I could see, was tapping his foot impatiently.
      "It'll only be another minute.  Please have a seat."
 Charlie helped me pull off the baby pack and rest it on the sand.
      "No, on the blanket's ok," said the stranger, without looking around.  How did he know?
       He turned now and sat down, legs crossed in front of him.  I sat down and Charlie reluctantly followed my example, shaking his head as he did so.
       The stranger pulled a Thermos from his pack and opened it.  Built into the lid were three nesting cups.  He filled one with steaming liquid and handed it to me, then the next to Charlie, and finally one for himself.
      "Nice to have something warm with someone.  That picture there's my little brother."
       I sipped my tea and it was my favorite, peppermint, with just a little honey.
      "He died 'bout twenty years ago, when he was thirty-two."
      I felt warmth settle around me.  I reached Charlene out of her pack to snuggle in my lap.  The pleasant babble in the background was calming.  It was strange that I  felt much warmer than the few sips of tea would generate.  Not hot like midsummer days, but more like my favorite warmth.  When Charlie and I go camping I love to pull the sleeping bag around my shoulders and breathe in the cool outdoor air.  There I'm warm, but the air feels so fresh, like mint.  I could stay that way for hours if I didn't have to pee.  That was the kind of warmth I felt.
       And the sound of the river reminded me of my favorite camping spot.  A hidden place deep in the wilderness, miles from the trail head and from people.  The memory was soothing.
      "...and when my little brother got sick," I heard the stranger saying, "sick with leukemia, it was harder on me than on him.  He just went right on doing special things for special people.  That's what he'd say, 'special things for special people.'"
      "He'd follow people around, some friends, others he'd never known, just to get to know them.  He'd listen to their conversations, you know, like on the mall or some such place, just to find out what they were really like.  Some would call it eavesdropping, but he had good intentions.  He stayed hid most of the time, or just blended in with the crowd, which is so easy in the shopping areas."
       The stranger reached once more in his pack and pulled out a small package.  He untied a string wrapped around a stained, greasy cloth.  Inside was a clean box.  A copper box.  The warm metal color was polished glossy.   On the lid was imprinted a very intricate pattern made by many small dimples.  It was a picture of a small sail boat, sun-dappled sails filled with easy winds, sailing before an island.  There was something familiar about that island.  The comfort of the moment took me back to my first date with Charlie.  We had gone sailing in a little rented Sunfish, with lunch and warm skies, and no hurry.  The sound of water came again, rushing under that little hull, not unlike the sounds from the creek nearby, a thousand miles from the ocean.  It was one of my favorite memories.
      "Once my little brother got to know someone well enough, he'd go find a gift.  'The perfect gift', he used to call it.  He'd find something that was just exactly what that person wanted.  Nothing big, just enough to bring them a smile.  Then he'd leave it for 'em, maybe in a mailbox or some place.  No name, nothin'."
      "He used to call himself an 'artist'.  When I asked what kind of art he did, he said, 'The Art of Giving.'"
       The lid from the copper box slid open slowly under the practiced hands of the stranger.
      "I think you'll like one of these."  He showed me the contents: chocolates with fine swirls.  I rocked back and forth on the blanket.  I was warm with Charlene on my lap, and I nipped the corners off the chocolate.  I remembered a time in Girl Scout camp, my first summer away from home.  I was so proud to have survived that first week of homesickness, and then my folks sent me some chocolates and I got lonesome all over again.  Finally I made some new friends sharing those sweets with camp mates.  In fact I had just seen one of those girl friends a few weeks back and we'd talked about that summer thirty years ago. 
       The stranger was saying something.
      "You know, that little kid brother of mine had something.  He could give somebody just the right gift at the right time that would bring out the softest, sweetest smile, like they were reliving the best of memories.  My little brother, he'd say, 'It doesn't take much, 'cause all the smiles in the world are already up in the brain.  All you gotta do is coax 'em out'."  Once that smile was back, he knew his job was done."
       The stranger got up.  "Well, I've gotta be moving on.  I'm glad you folks shared a little time with me."
       He stuffed the blanket back in his pack, carefully rolled up the copper box and tied the string around it, placing it safely in a fold of the blanket.  Then, with each safety pin ticked back into place to hold the pack shut, he nodded and turned to walk away.  Charlie yelled after him, 'Hey, what's your name?', but he was already too far to hear.
       As we threaded Charlene into her backpack, I noticed the cold of the winter night had returned.  Charlie shouldered the pack for the trek home. 
       He said, "That was my favorite coffee he poured for me.  Really tasty."
      "Coffee?" I said.
      "Yeah, and that small wooden box he had reminded me of my Dad when he taught me to use a saw.  I was about ten.  We built a box just like that.  And I especially like the picture of the little boy on the lid."
       Confused, I shoved my hands deep into my pockets to warm them and felt something.  It was the stranger's picture.  I pulled it out and looked and halted so suddenly Charlie went on several steps before he realized he'd left me behind.
      "What is it?"  He asked.
 In my hand was the picture, still scratched and one corner torn.  It showed five little girls, arms slung around each other's shoulders with chocolate stains on lips and cheeks.  Summer camp flags waved in the background and those girls had the biggest smiles ever.