Read Christmas with Tucker for Free Online Page B

time and work—on top of all my other newfound responsibilities. Her news was hardly cause for celebration. My male classmates snickered at my “good fortune” until she began casting them as assorted elves, reindeers, and angels, which was even more humiliating.
    Mrs. Weeks must have assumed that because I loved to read, a major part in the school play would fit me nicely and add some much-needed cheer to the first Christmas without my father. If Dad had been around, he would have helped me with my lines, and my mother would have made me a costume and a long white beard. It certainly wouldn’t be that way this year.
    My teacher was right about one thing—I did love to read,and I was one of the best readers at Crossing Trails Central School, even better than some of the high school kids. Instead of having to read what Mrs. Weeks assigned, I was allowed to choose whatever appealed to me, from Zane Grey to Walter Farley, Dickens to Defoe. Reading was a passion that I’d inherited from my father.
    Dad never went to college, but he was far from uneducated and was insistent that we take school seriously. He read paperback novels, from the classics to pulp detective novels, and loads of magazines, his favorites being
Popular Mechanics, Sports Illustrated, Time
, and
Scientific American
. He remembered what he read, too.
    He bought us the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
from a silver-haired traveling salesman who drove a long black Buick, wore a striped suit with a red bow tie, and swore up and down that with these encyclopedias the McCray children were virtually assured of success in their chosen endeavors.
    For three years, my father stayed up long nights reading all the volumes. His mind traveled over a wide range of subjects the following morning. At breakfast, the conversation was as likely to cover wheat prices and weather as the feeding habits of orangutans or the farming techniques on an Israeli kibbutz in the Negev desert. My sisters typically acted bored, but Mom would always say, “Hush, girls, it won’t hurt you to learn something.”
    My father read stories to my sisters and me every night, even when the girls claimed to be too old. Mom would walk in and out of the room and simply smile. I think she enjoyed watching him read to us as much as we enjoyed being read to. He chose rollicking adventure tales, animal stories, classics, and even fairy tales that always seemed to be just right for all threeof us. Those evening reading sessions were among the things I missed most about Dad.
    Although it was hardly compensation for being cast in the play, Mrs. Weeks did give us a free period later that day, encouraging us to start learning our lines. But I decided to write to my mother. We had a lot of catching up to do.
    Mom
,
    It’s been a busy week. I have really been missing you. I’m just not so happy here on the farm, without you and Dad. I had to get up at 4:30 this morning to do the milking and Grandpa has LOTS of snow to clear. It’s not that bad getting up so early, but I really don’t like it that much. I’m taking care of Frank Thorne’s dog. We named him Tucker—Mr. Thorne never named him anything, as far as we know—and I like him a lot. I got the part of Santa Claus in the school play. I hate that, but Eddie Sampson has it worse. He has to be an elf and wear red tights. Happy Thanksgiving—ours will be a quiet one, but we can’t wait to have you here for Christmas
.
        
Love you and miss you so much
,
    
George
    Though I used the letter to let off steam about the extra work, my goal was simply to let Mom know how much I loved and missed her. I purposely stopped short of telling her that I couldn’t wait to move to Minnesota, and that I was considering taking her up on that offer of a bus ticket. Writing it down on paper felt like a real commitment, and a reality I wasn’t readyto confront. Once again, I wondered fleetingly what would happen to the McCray Dairy if I left it behind. How would