Copyright 2009, All Rights Reserved
Chapter 1.
The family together at Christmas was a joyous occasion. The tree lights on, our children and grandchildren running around the room like the proverbial 'Wild Indians' your parents always called you when you were young and full of too much energy to be contained.
At our house, we had a particular set of gift-giving traditions.
On Christmas Eve, we would eat a sumptuous dinner, usually a prime-rib roast, with potatoes, dressing, a dish that we called a 'spinach soufflΓ©' but which was really a casserole, and all the rest, pies, raspberry Jell-O, more than I can even remember.
Wines for the adults, sparkling cider for the kids, after-dinner chocolates, all consumed with that rare intensity that a holiday brings.
We would all eat too much, and at least the adults around the table were quietly desperate to go to bed and overcome the lassitude of digestion.
We would give one gift to each family member after dinner, to be opened, and then bed for the little ones. For some of us, there was still work to do that could only be accomplished after they had, despite all of their most valiant efforts to remain awake and vigilant, fallen off to sleep.
In the morning, the children (now grandchildren) would wake up and demand to be allowed down to where Santa had left his gifts, under the tree. We older folks would grudgingly give up our warm and cozy beds, put on robes and slippers, and surrender to the children's desire to attack the gaily attired presents under the tree.
Even then, though, we limited the satiation of greed.
We had stockings full of small presents, and everyone opened their 'stocking stuffers' β often food, or books, CD's, DVD's and other small presents.
Then we all sat down at the table and had a breakfast made of handmade cinnamon rolls. Made by yours truly's own hands, several days ahead of time, as it took most of a day to make them.
Then back to the tearing and ripping of Christmas paper, bows and ribbons thrown hither and thither, as Mother (also known as Grandmother to some, and Martha to me, at least) handed them out, one at a time, making sure that everyone would have roughly the same number opened, and the same number remaining.
When virtually all of the other presents had been opened, and the special Christmas wrap around the base of the tree was visible again, I reached into the pocket of my robe, and withdrew a small box that I handed to Martha.
She looked at the size of the box, and then up at me, with an expectant gleam in her eyes.
"Good things," she proclaimed to all in the room, a huge smile on her face, "come in small packages!"
I smiled back at her, and sat back in my chair, while she contemplated the box.
"Hmmm..." she murmured, shaking the box close to her ear, to hear any movement.
"I think it's too small to be an elephant," she confided to the grandchildren, who all laughed, knowing how silly Grandma was being.
"And I doubt that your Dad wrapped it," she said to the adult children, "since the paper is so tight on the box." This was an inside joke with the family. I could fix almost anything, but don't ask me to wrap a gift.
"Not to mention, there is a jewelry story label on the back of the box!" she exclaimed with a laugh, as if this was somehow a mystery solved. At that, the adults laughed, including me. Like Sherlock Holmes, she had solved the case of the anonymous gift box. Deduction, my dear Watson, simple deduction.
She finally opened the box, and drew out the 14 carat gold chain with its pear-shaped diamond pendent, which she held up for everyone to see. Everyone oohed and awed as they were supposed to.
Martha looked at me and with the smile still on her face, said,
"Oh Mark, this is lovely! You are so good to me. Thank you."
And then turned away to show her daughter's in-laws her gift. The day continued on, once my gift to my wife of thirty-plus years was given, the rest of the day anti-climactic for me.
Finally came the end of the day, the piling and stacking of suitcases, and duffel-bags, and with the added crowding effect of the gifts, into the cars and minivans, as our children and their families pulled away into the evening.
We stood there in the doorway, Martha and myself, my arm around her waist, and waved as the cars pulled out of the driveway and into the street, and with the hint of smoke coming from the exhausts as drivers stepped down on the gas peddles, the family departed, leaving us alone once again.
As soon as the cars were out of sight, Martha pulled herself away from my embrace, to head back into the house and begin the task of straightening out the residual trash, returning our domicile to its more or less natural (meaning just the two of us) condition.
There were bags and bags of paper and trash to be left out for the garbage collectors, and this was one of the only weeks of the year when loose bags could be stacked next to the large plastic containers for pick-up. I dutifully hauled out the entire load, since tomorrow, the day after Christmas just happened to be our pickup day this year.
Dinner was quiet, as both Martha and I were talked-out after having all of the family back in our home for two-days straight. In some ways, the leftovers for dinner were even better the second time around, for one thing because all we had to do was microwave them to heat them up. Much easier than the cooking process the first time.
We cleaned up our dishes, and resealed the plastic containers of left-overs that now filled our refrigerator to its maximum capacity. The day was, at long last, done.
I went into my once again free office, the trundle bed no longer occupying a large portion as we used it for our younger son and his wife. I checked out my email, and looked at a couple of the news sites and brought myself up-to-date with what was going on in the world.