"Christmas Day in the Morning" by Pearl S. Buck is a bit on the saccharine side. Not Christmas Shoes saccharine (oh my, I just listened to Patton Oswalt's take-down), but certainly a baby in a manger away from the Kinks' Father Christmas.
It's interesting, this whole "fathers expressing love" thing. When I tell my kids that I love them, I might get a "I love you, too," or I might get a, "yeah, I know, you tell me that everyday" and in all honesty, both replies make me smile. Is it excessive? Will they someday need to hear it more and doubt my sincerity? Nah, I doubt that. Do I judge fathers of a certain my father's generation for being skimpy on the old love talk? Not really, I suppose (though it's taken 14 years of hard counseling and one screenplay that no one wants to read). People express themselves differently and that's what this story is about.
And it's on Christmas, too, which makes sense. Speaking of expressing things differently, this Christmas I'm sure to get a Christmas card from some aunt or some friend of my parents that I've barely spoken to in 15 years, simply because it's Christmas and because of some weird tradition that sees them picking up a crate of bulk cards with generic Christmas greetings on them. They'll sign their names, and like a mini-Christmas miracle, I'll cross their thoughts again. They'll search for my address, say "I wonder how he's doing," lick the envelope, and I'll be forgotten about until next year this time. Later, I'll get it in the mail, say "I wonder how they're doing" and "I hope they're not too offended that I don't do the Christmas card thing." I'll think it's lovely, chuck it in the garbage, and think of them again next year this time.
Where was I? Oh yeah, "Christmas Day in the Morning." It's about expressions of love. And cows.