Since 2006, School Library Journal has solicited holiday memories from authors and illustrators. In our ninth edition, we feature contributions from Kathryn Erskine, Tim Federle, Andrea Davis Pinkney, and Huck Scarry, who join the ranks of beloved authors Judy Blume, Richard Peck, and Loren Long in our holiday memory annals.

Kathryn Erskine

Kathryn Erskine is the acclaimed author of many distinguished novels for young readers, including Mockingbird (Penguin, 2010), winner of the National Book Award; The Absolute Value of Mike (Philomel, 2010), an Amazon Best Book and ALA Notable Book; and Quaking, an ALA Top Ten Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers.  Her most recent books are Seeing Red (Scholastic, 2013) and The Badger Knight (Scholastic, 2014).

Kathryn Erskine, age 5. Photo courtesy of Kathryn Erskine

Christmas as a kid was a magical. Some grown up you didn’t know squeezed himself down your chimney and left really great presents. All you had to do was write a note and put out some milk and cookies, even slightly nibbled ones. Santa wouldn’t mind, I was sure, because he was such a sweet, jolly guy. As exciting as the season was, it was also difficult. I’ve never been a patient person, and as far as being curious…well, let’s just say I completely identified with Curious George. Opening that first door of my advent calendar and knowing I had 24 more days to wait was excruciating. But it did mean the treasure hunt for where Christmas gifts might be hidden could begin! There was the attic, the way back of the kitchen cabinets, the high shelf in my parents’ closet, where we weren’t supposed to go, and even the trunk of my father’s car, that last one being well nigh impossible to get into. Even if I managed to find a stash, it was limited to the expected (toffee, foil-wrapped Dutch chocolates) or the boring (Days of the Week underwear). At least there was Santa. The year I was five, I decided I would stay up all night and see the Big Guy for myself. I wanted to meet him, talk to him, and share his cookies, but that might run the risk of being classified as “naughty,” and even though I was sure he was as kind as a teddy bear, what if he whisked my gifts back up the chimney? That’s exactly the type of injustice poor Curious George would’ve suffered. I would have to hide. On Christmas Eve, as soon as I heard noises downstairs, I crept down the hall, crouched on the landing, and peered between the railings into the partially obscured and mostly dark living room. Santa was definitely there! I heard the rustle of gifts and the muffled tones of a man’s voice. Then I heard my mother’s talking to Santa, which was more than a little disturbing. What is Mummy doing whispering to Santa, I wondered, and where is Daddy? “The bike,” my mother said. Santa grunted in reply. “You didn’t put it together yet?” she asked. (Silly Mummy! That’s what elves are for!) And then the swearing started─ not my mother─Santa. Santa? I’d never pegged Jolly Old St. Nick as a swearer. “Shh!” my mother cautioned, “they’ll hear.” More swearing. The voice was sounding increasingly familiar. Daddy? Wait…that could only mean…there is no Santa. Crap, I thought─one of the milder words from my father’s lexicon. I loved the bike, though, which my father finished putting together on Christmas Day—because “Santa didn’t do his [bleep-bleep] job”—while my mother glared at him. I still liked the myth of Santa. Or, more accurately, I clung to the myth that believing in Santa would get me more presents. When my sister blew my cover, I was outraged (and embarrassed) but soon realized she was right: we got the same number of presents whether they were from “Santa” or our parents. There were always the Santa-type gifts—the aquarium, LEGO kit, entire sets of my favorite books—and somehow, even packages of school supplies, socks, and Days of the Week underwear, cheerily wrapped and peeking out from under a lit tree on Christmas morning, with carols playing and chocolate for breakfast. It felt magical.

Tim Federle

Tim Federle grew up in San Francisco and Pittsburgh before moving to New York to dance on Broadway. His debut novel for kids, Better Nate Than Ever (2013), described as “Judy Blume as seen through a Stephen Sondheim lens” by The Huffington Post, was named a New York Times Notable Children’s Book of 2013 and a Best Book of 2013 by Amazon and Publishers Weekly. Five, Six, Seven, Nate! (both S. & S., 2014), the sequel to Better Nate  Than Ever, was named a Best Book of 2014 by the American Booksellers Association.

A 20-year-old Tiim Federle as a Santa at Radio City Music Hall in NYC. Photo courtesy of Tim Federle

One of the reasons the We Need Diverse Books campaign feels like such a big duh to me is because I come from a theater background, where so-called color blind casting has long been the norm. Case in holiday point: here I am as one of many multi-cultured/gendered Santas, all cast members of the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular. This was my first gig in New York, as a freshly scrubbed 20-year-old who never dreamed he’d someday be published by the great people across the street from Radio City, at Simon & Schuster. The Christmas show was amazing: you’d do up to five performances a day, for audiences who’d come from all over the world to experience 90 minutes of holiday magic. One of the reasons I love book events and big crowds, now—and why I never resent those “slow tourists” on our NYC sidewalks—is because I know they’re paying the bills. Without ticket buyers and book readers, I’d never have a job. And a job you love is, of course, the ultimate gift, Christmas or not.

Andrea Davis Pinkney

Andrea Davis Pinkney is the New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of many books, including her latest novel, The Red Pencil (Little, Brown, 2014), which was named an SLJ Best Book of 2014 and a New York Times Notable Book, and is also an NAACP Image Award nominee.   When I was growing up, we prayed hard for white Christmases with lots of snow. That’s because my parents, sister, brother, and I spent every Christmas holiday skiing. This was a Davis family tradition that started when I was a kid and lasted well into my adult years. One of the most memorable Christmas ski excursions happened about 25 years ago, right after I met Brian Pinkney, the guy who would become my husband. We were still dating then, and my family invited Brian to join us for the annual Davis Christmas Ski Summit. As my new boyfriend, Brian was very eager to make a good impression on my family. So he graciously agreed to come along for the skiing, even though he didn't really know how to ski. I remember my father making a tongue-in-cheek remark about this ski trip being a test of Brian’s devotion to me and an indicator of whether he’d make a suitable husband. Dad meant it as a joke, but I didn't think it was funny. Poor Brian. I was so afraid the whole thing would be a downhill disaster and would go down in Davis family history as the Christmas ski trip that plunged my boyfriend into a snow drift, never to be heard from again.

Davis family ski trip Photo courtesy of Andreas David Pinkney

In this photo, I’m pictured with Brian and my parents (Mom and Dad on the left, me and Brian on the right) at the start of the holiday. Brian looks very confident and ready, but he’s since admitted that he was shaking in his ski boots. Thankfully, Mom and Dad took pity on my future husband and spent the entire trip patiently teaching him to ski. My father led the way, inviting Brian to “follow this old man,” while my mom kept close behind Brian, coaching him by yelling,  “Cut your skis! Bend your knees! And for goodness’ sake, stop looking down!” On the wintry trail, I was the last Davis in the ski line, following from a safe distance, counting the moments for this holiday to be over. Much to my relief, Brian’s a quick study. By the end of the trip, he was holding his own on the slopes. This photo has special meaning, because shortly after it was taken, Brian proposed. My parents had no qualms about welcoming him into the family. He’d proven himself on a mountaintop-to-bottom. Now, whenever I hear the song "White Christmas," I can't help but think of the lengths―and heights―my husband went to, to impress his future wife and in-laws.

Huck Scarry

Huck Scarry (l) with his father Richard Scarry. Photo courtesy of Huck Scarry

Huck Scarry is carrying on the tradition of his father, the late popular children’s author Richard Scarry, with the newly found and published Richard Scarry’s Best Lowly Worm Book Ever! (all titles Random House, 2014). He also an author/illustrator in his own right, continuing to publish titles in the Scarry style, such as Richard Scarry's a Day at the Airport (2001) and Richard Scarry's a Day at the Fire Station (2003). When I was a child, Christmastime always began with the smell of apples and cloves. Around Thanksgiving, I would already start making a pomander: an apple into which I would press cloves, one snuggly against the other, until the apple was a brown, spiky, but heavenly smelling ball. It was a long work of patience, but once finished, tied to a velvet ribbon and hung-up in a doorframe, it was a wonderful feeling to smell Christmas coming ! On Christmas Eve, my mother would bake cranberry muffins. Before I would be sent off to bed, we would place a freshly baked muffin on a plate, along with a hot mug of cocoa beside the fireplace. I always imagined that Santa must get pretty hungry and thirsty doing his rounds with his big sack of toys. The next morning, the first thing I would look for in the still darkened living room, even before checking the length of my stocking hanging from the fireplace mantle, was to see if Santa had indeed had his cocoa and muffin... and he always did!

An original illustration by Richard Scarry. Courtesy of Huck Scarry

Read more SLJ Holiday Memories:  2013 Holiday Memories   2012 Holiday Memories Part 2 2012 Holiday Memories Part 1 2011 Holiday Memories 2010 Holiday Memories 2009 Holiday Memories 2008 Holiday Memories 2007 Holiday Memories 2006 Holiday Memories Part 2 2006 Holiday Memories Part 1