Carla and I don’t do Christmas anymore, haven’t in many years. Not since the kids went off to go off on their own paths. We never did all that much in the way of commercial gift giving anyway, mostly treating the holiday as we do Thanksgiving, lots of good food. One family tradition demanded that I find a big lobster for us to share. After carefully removing the meat from the largest claw, I mounted bright red claws on the wall, just below the ceiling in our cabin house. A gift that kept on giving.
Some years we didn’t have a lot of money, but it never mattered. We knew that the stores full of stuff held little of value. Sure, we got the girls dolls and such, but mostly it was about the seasonal music, lots of special treats to eat, and a decorated tree that filled the house with the fresh evergreen scent that is the essence of Christmas.
The thing I miss the most though, was a handwritten story from Ruth. From the time she was first able to do so, I asked her to write me a story, about anything at all, just write. That's what I wanted. She thought she was getting away with something because she didn't have to buy me anything, all she had to do was write me a story. I still have most of them, stained and wrinkled pieces of lined and unlined paper, filled with color and imagination, starting out with a child’s scrawl...and ending here. I think this was the last one.
All of them were the best presents a Dad could get.st
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