My Christmas Story

A Family Tradition

..........................by L.L. Abbott

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My father ruled as the wrapper of grand packages. An endearing tradition that grew over the years. My mother had not choice, at times, but to comply. She decorated around an old-fashioned steam engine one year. Made from torn down cardboard boxes and left-over paints, we could stand inside and wave out the window.

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I remember a package in the shape of a house, with a steep pitched roof. Smoke billowed from the chimney on Christmas morning. And arguably his weirdest package is when he collected all the emptied wrapping paper tubes, rewrapped them in various new papers, and then taped them all together to form — an abstract sculpture. I don’t know how long it took my mother to pull out all the crumpled news and tissue paper [from most every tube] until she found that little velvet box with a ring inside.

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He had one bad year, though, when he bought a huge lava rock for her garden, and couldn’t come up with anything better than draping it with one of those quilted blankets that movers use to pad furniture. He affixed a big red pre-made bow; but, didn’t get off without being chided for the effort.

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There were the years where my sister and I actually had to work for our gifts. Follow the string or cryptic message games lead to pre-placed envelopes, and could take an hour of riddle-solving torment. They would take us to every room in the house and depending on the weather, the clues could also lead outdoors.

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One year my sister and her husband took our parents to task. The new sunken family room proved the perfect stage for that year's riddle game. We'd been through several rounds of presents—everyone took a turn; everyone watched the other—when my sister provided them with their first envelope. They had one minute to solve the riddle, find the next envelope, and return to the top of the stairs.

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Once back they opened and read the next riddle aloud. Each riddle led them to another room. The basement, den, bedrooms, bathroom, the attic— I don't remember the order. Each time they returned, both breathed a little heavier. Each stood giddier with laughter. And each reading got progressively more difficult to understand. And every time they took off—after a "times a wastin'" or "the clocks ticking" jibe—my sister, brother-in-law, and I giggled just a little bit harder.

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When they finally returned with a box that took both of them to carry, we cheered. We let them catch their breath and spout off their 'how-could-you-do-this-to-us' complaints as they lowered the heavy box on the floor. When they sat beside it and started to tear off the paper, Grandma (who sat comfortably; waiting for their return and the silliness to end) said, "It looks like a microwave!"

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My sister turned immediately around and shot a look my way.

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Oh Dear!

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Her stern eyes and pursed lips told me that's exactly what it was. We both looked at Grandma, who sat oblivious to our stare, then back up at our parents. By then the gift had been revealed. Though completely surprised, my sister felt, after all that effort, somewhat let down. For years (though lovingly at our grandmother's expense) depending on which package best resembled it, someone would inevitably exclaim, "It looks like a microwave!"

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Over the years the packages became more elaborate. There was the USS Bud Light. Four feet of cardboard and Navy drab paint; with turrets and guns. He modeled a striking replica of the space shuttle that hung suspended over the pool table. A lot of aluminium foil was sacrificed for that one.

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My brother-in-law eventually took on the challenge the following year and built an Apollo-style rocket; made from graduated PVC piping. Complete with tinsel at the base—backlit with a strand of red lights simulating take-off—it stood over 6 foot tall and hid components of the garage door opener.

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Over those same years, I became the official judge of the unofficial Christmas Package Challenge. Unfortunately, that pleasure lasted only two more years. When my father passed [some eleven years ago now], so too ended the most fun part of Christmas.

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Oh. We still have what I liken to Bait-n-Switch packages. Boxes within boxes. Boxes substituted for what's actually inside. My mother mastered the art of opening boxes—sealed in cellophane—emptying the contents and then using them for socks; a bowling ball cloth; or teddy bears. There can be a Box No. 2 to the Box No. 1. And there is the occasional envelope bearing a riddle inside. Anything is fair game; anything to throw off the other.

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I removed the holiday trappings one year to find a box of dog biscuits. "Do I need a box of Dog Biscuits?" I asked.
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"It’s not biscuits." She replied, before I started to look for the dog to go with them.
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Because the cellophane was sealed, I asked, "How did you get this open?”
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She just sat there beaming with Mom-gotcha pride.
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A few years back, I made what I considered a grand package attempt. Only because I believed I had my father's blessing. I bought one of those extra large balloons and a tank of helium. I gathered up some light-weight cording, a rattan ring, and one small basket. I wrangled up a few macrame knots, and attached the basket, and yes! Think Wizard of Oz. My little hot-air balloon held a stuffed kitty hugging an envelope with tickets to see one of the last performances of Cats. Oh, she loved the tickets. [And enjoyed the show!] But my grand effort went completely unacknowledged. I never tried again.

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That said, a couple of years later, I found these beautiful hand-blown glass butteryfly ponds. They came with a steel rod stake with a spiral base where the glass sat down inside. I bought one each for my sister and mother. I wrapped the stakes inside an emptied wrapping paper tube and the colored glass flower ponds in a separate box.

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On Christmas day, I gave my sister the long tube package, and my mother: Box No. 2. When my sister found the gift tag also included my mother, she called her over to open it together. They pulled the steel rods, with the spiral tops, free of their trappings and sat bewildered.

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When they looked over to me, I hummed, “Hum. There must be another box.”
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“Oh! That’s mean!” they declared.
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You’ve got to be kidding! I mused. “I learned this stuff from you people!” I said.

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My mother then searched for and they opened the other box. They marvelled at the glass and talked about where they could put them in their respective gardens. My brother-in-law sat quietly and said; in my direction, “Wait until next year!”

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O-o-o-o-o! If I had my boots on, I'd so be shakin'. NOT!

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2007

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With absolutely no money to spend last year, I had to depend entirely on my creativity and what lay stashed in my studio. My mother and sister were easy. A hand knit scarf for one [the wind blows hard and harsh during winter on a farm] and a hand beaded brocade bookmark for the other. For my brother-in-law? Though it took weeks to figure out, I remembered a treasure I alone knew existed.

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In 1974, after loosing her only other son [my grandfather died many years earlier], my father's mother decided to move out of her two and a half story house and into a much smaller single level ranch. It took weeks to sort through everything and left dozens of boxes piled up for future garage sales. Certain of things, though, were gifted to one family member or another. I received the small black King James Bible my father received, from his pastor, when only 5 years old.

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I had only to turn to the first page to read the hand-scribed passage I knew to be there:

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This book will keep you from sin, and sin will keep you from this book.

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The old blotted-ink coffee-colored inscription was followed by the name of the church; my father's childhood name; and the date of 1935.

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It was fragile the day I accepted it, and read through it with great care. Thirty some years later, bits of the frail yellowed paper crumbled and fell away in my hand as I carefully flipped through the pages. The edges of the cover and binding were thread-bare, and the gold gilding from the words Holy Bible had long worn away. And each sewn section of pages threatened to separate from the next. I didn’t want to cause it further damage, so— I set it down and left it alone.
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I looked at it for days wondering how best to clean and restore it. When I picked it up the Saturday before Christmas, I knew exactly what to do and to whom it should now belong.

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My brother-in-law loved my father. He lost his own to leukaemia. When my father passed two years later, he not only lost a second father, he lost his very best of friends. I thought of this as returning a part of my father my brother-in-law never even knew.

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That morning, I cleared space on a worktable in my studio and collected a bowl of water, a pair of surgical gloves [from a first aid kit], a handful cotton tips, mineral oil, and a towel.
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I pulled on the gloves and began to dampen the first cotton tip. I worked very small areas at a time and then blotted with the towel. I laid the aged book to rest upon a clean sheet of printer paper. I used mineral oil next; repeating the same tedious process. The old leather-like cover drank it in. The oil helped to restore a little lustre and made the words Holy Bible (the gold gilding long worn away), stand out more.
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I clipped off the longer strands of tattered threads, but left the rest. I reglued sections of the cover that had split apart; along with where the end sheets were torn from the spine. I then laid the book down, lined up all the sections square, and left it to set and heal.
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Throughout I kept thinking, how am I going to wrap this?

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The following morning, I collected tissue paper and a few boxes. But, before I wrapped it, I cut a piece of mid-night blue organza ribbon. I sorted out various seed beads, threaded a needle, and beaded (encrusted) the top edge. I cut the bottom at a sharp angle and placed it inside the first page. I wanted the inscription to be the first thing he saw.

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As for the wrapping? In order to make sure I didn’t cause more damage, I needed to make sure (once wrapped) it wouldn’t move around. That meant I could use only one box. BUT! It didn’t mean it had to be the first box he sees.

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I rolled a piece of tissue paper and placed it under the edges so they wouldn't get turned under or bent, then wrapped tissue paper around the entire Bible. I secured it with a very narrow black grosgrain ribbon. I set it back down upon the printer paper to lift and set it inside an old Ralph Lauren perfume set box, i.e., the Bait-n-Switch begins! Then I stuffed it with tissue paper to insure it wouldn't slide around.
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Another thing to consider-- Pocket knives were standard issue Christmas Day implements. They were freshly sharpened and readied for any one who couldn't tackle the ribbon drawn up all on four sides or those tape-jobs that covered every point of entry; meant to keep you at bay for as long as possible. I would need to make sure my brother-in-law didn’t use of his pocket knife to cut the ribbon; so as not strain the precious little book. Wrapping the box took a little longer since I didn't want to turn the package upside down.

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Once wrapped it was time for the traditional cryptic message, which I wrote inside a fancy die-cut card and sealed it in an envelope; with the subsequent boldly written message:

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THIS SIDE UP
HANDLE WITH CARE
FRAGILE! ~ FRAGILE!

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Now— On to the Bait-n-Switch!

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I made a very small envelope out of the same gift wrap and sealed the spare key to my car inside. I wrote the following verse inside another die-cut card:

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So sorry that these boxes
were nothing more than junk.
To find your real gift
you'll need this key to my trunk.

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The envelope with the key went inside this card, which I then slid into the matching envelope. That envelope went inside a larger manila envelope, which I placed inside a small gift box. I wrapped this box in gift wrap and tied it with ribbon. This package went inside another box, which I set into yet another box. Again, wrapped and then tied with a much larger bow. That’s a total of four boxes, four envelopes, two cryptic verses and one key to the trunk of my car.

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Christmas Day!

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That morning, I spread a fresh laundered sheet inside the trunk and secured the real gift and envelope; with the cautionary instructions. The other box and gifts, along with my homemade whipped cream and eggnog, sat up front as I drove to my sister’s house.

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After dinner my brother-in-law took his brother downstairs to shoot a few rounds of pool, while the rest of the family [that would be the females of the respective clans] passed out and opened presents. The lonely Bait-n-Switch remained under my sister’s tree.

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When everyone started to pack up and say their good-byes, my brother-in-law saw everyone to their cars. I sat around the table with my mother and sister, contemplating eggnog and more dessert. When he returned, I merely pointed him and then toward the tree. I pointed back to him and said, "That one’s yours!"

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He walked on into the family room. But when my mother and sister showed no interest in joining him, I remained seated, reluctantly, at the dinning room table.
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Though I watched him pick up the package, he turned to sit in an over-stuffed chair that had its back to me. I couldn’t even see as he opened it. [Remember that 'let down' my sister experienced?] I listened, but could not hear the first audible word. He suffered my trial in relative silence. Until— He rose and came back into the dining room, grabbed his coat, and mumbled something about, 'so many BOXES!' [not entirely sure there wasn't an expletive in there somemheres!] then headed through door to the garage.

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My sister whispered harshly, "I told you not to spend any money!"
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"I didn't." I replied.

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When I heard the door close behind him, I broke the conversation to relay, "I cannot stress enough how fragile this is. I would prefer that he open this box, here at the table. And, I don't want him using a pocket knife to cut the ribbon. Can you get a pair of scissors?"

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As she went for a pair of scissors, my mother remarked, "You should have told him how fragile it is."
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"Oh! He'll see that when he opens the trunk."
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"Are you sur..."
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I interrupted her to indicate, "Handle with care is printed loud and clear on the envelope.”

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When my brother-in-law returned, my sister told him where to sit and he quietly opened the next envelope. Though he read the card to himself, she took it from his hand and then read it aloud:

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Seventy two years ago
a now fragile page was signed,
and given to a father
of both yours and mine.

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"Hunnnf!" she mouthed thoughtfully; to no one in particular.
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She's clueless. Good! So was my mother who hovered quietly over my shoulder.

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As he gingerly peeled away the wrapping paper and removed the lid bearing the designer logo, I stated, "I cannot stress enough, how careful you need to be with this."

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I watched as he gingerly he removed the top layers of tissue paper which revealed the bundle tied with the grosgrain ribbon. He gently pulled out the rest of the tissue. Taking hold of the edges of the printer paper he pulled it free. My sister pushed the box away, handed him the scissors and told him, "You need to use these."
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He cut the ribbon and pulled the rest of the tissue away. "Wow! It's an old Bible.” Since he has a fondness for antiques he thought I'd just given him an old timey Bible.

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He lifted the bottom edge of the bookmark, opening to the pre-selected page and read the inscription and our father's name aloud.

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"I'd forgotten all about that." My mother said softly.

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The thoughtful look from my sister told me I couldn't have found it a better home. But, in the next moment, my brother-in-law picked up the key to my car, and announced he wanted to check the oil. On Christmas Day? He took off and remained gone far longer than it took read a dip stick and top off the oil.

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In his absence my mother said, "He'll find a very special place to put this." [As I knew he would.] She and my sister continued to relay where he puts all of his special and secret things.

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When he came back in, my sister followed him as he headed for their back room. She returned with a gift box of tea. "Yes, we're re-gifting this, but no one here drinks tea.” Then my brother-in-law walked up with a little gift bag of cookies and gift cards.

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I hadn’t needed anything more than they’d already given and maybe my package wasn’t all that grand. But I left their house knowing I did a very good thing. And whether it revives a cherished family tradition— who knows what this year will bring or whether someone will choose to retaliate. At this writing, I no longer care. What's done is done and most likely belongs in the past; where some of the best of our memories live.

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THE END

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