|My first 'real' Christmas. Age 14 months.|
I've been trying to remember gifts I have received for Christmas.
I know I received some.
Many, in fact.
Stuffed toys and dolls. And the snuggling that ensued.
Lego. Always popular.
Books. Nancy Drew in particular.
Puzzles. Nearly always completed with my Dad.
There was the one year that my parents gave me a small musical instrument. I think they called it a musette.
It had a tiny black membrane that fit into one end and made the whole thing work.
A delicate membrane.
One could put a finger right through it.
Don't ask me how I know this . . .
I clearly remember the year we all got skis.
And the adventures that followed.
And the time my brother gave me a camshaft.
A real camshaft.
As it turned out, though, it wasn't my real present.
He had wrapped it up to confuse me just in case I had caught a glimpse of what he had actually purchased for me.
Moving on . . .
There were things I needed.
And things I didn't.
Tinned Vienna sausage.
And a mounted and stuffed Jack-a-lope head.
Things I really, really wanted.
A Palm Pilot. (Google it.)
And a PT Cruiser. (I got three – all three inches long.)
And things that were just . . . sweet.
Several pairs of slippers.
And at least one bath robe.
I've truly loved them all.
They were given with love.
And accepted with the same.
But I have been around for fifty seven Christmases, including this one.
Why can't I remember fifty seven gifts?
I know there was at least one per year.
Many times, more.
I guess it's because the memory of family and being together stands out more clearly.
And that's how it should be.