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| 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.
Clothes.
Quilts.
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.)
Video Camera.
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.
Truly.
They were given with love.
And accepted with the same.
But I have been around for fifty seven
Christmases, including this one.
Fifty seven.
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.
