COLUMN: Ramblings: The Christmas gift

I have many memories of my father at Christmas. Memories of trips to the City Market in Indianapolis, making cookies, picking out the perfect tree. Each tinfoil icicle, each ornament was placed with precision. My most precious memory is of a lesson dad taught us the year I was 10. I do not know how it relates to nature, but it is a story worth telling.

My father was a policeman. One cold morning, the week before Christmas, dad came home upset. He was acting strangely and whispering to mom. I heard her say, "Oh, Bob," repeatedly as she puttered around the kitchen making coffee. It was time to get ready for school, so I got up and wandered into the kitchen. I was surprised to see my older brother sitting at the table in his pajamas. I could tell by my parents' faces something was wrong.

Mom told us to get dressed so we could have breakfast with dad before we went to school. "He wants to talk with you." Someone had plugged in the Christmas tree lights. Bubble lights were shining like tiny candles; the glass balls dangling from the fragrant limbs were shining from reflecting lights. The perfectly placed icicles were gleaming. I smiled at the presents under the tree as I passed by. I felt a rush of excitement about what might be in the ones with my name on them. Was I going to get another story book doll for my collection? I collected small dolls dressed in costumes from other countries. What books were waiting to take me away from my life to live in the pages with the characters that seemed so interesting?

When I returned to the kitchen, both my brothers were there, eating oatmeal. Dad was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. The look on his face was sad and serious. "Kids," he started, "I want to tell you something, and I need your help." He proceeded to tell us about a house fire he had been called to. The home of a family with four children had burned to the ground. The family had escaped, which was a miracle, but they had lost everything. Dad looked at us sadly, "Now I know you don't have many presents under the tree. But those kids don't even have a tree. I'd like for you to pick out one of your gifts to give to these kids."

My brother Red looked at me, his blue eyes twinkling. I knew what he was thinking, "which one?" Which one was THE present we really wanted? Neither of us said, "No, we won't." No kid wants to give away their Christmas presents. There was something in our father's voice, his slumped shoulders that convinced us that this was the time to do as he asked. After all, we had more than one present. We were not forced to run out in the cold winter night to escape a fire. The three of us walked to the tree and searched for a present with our name on it. I decided on a present wrapped in white paper with green holly and bright red berries. Mom had tied a red ribbon around it. I did not know what it was, but it was a pretty package.

We handed the presents we had chosen to Dad. Mom picked one of my baby sister Linda's. She was only four and still asleep. As Dad put the presents in a shopping bag he said, "Thank you. I am proud of you all for giving up one of your presents for these kids." Later, I learned that the firemen and the officers on duty had taken up a collection to help the family. We weren't the only policeman's kids that shared our presents with children we did not know.

Sometimes I wonder what was in the pretty box I gave to a girl I didn't know. It wasn't my story book doll. I received a beautiful Dutch doll with wooden shoes and blonde braids that year. What I gave away doesn't matter. My life is unchanged by the absence of that gift. My existence is richer by far by the invaluable lesson I learned. 'Things' are not what life is about. A pile of presents is not the meaning of Christmas. My father gave us a gift that year that is worth more than anything that could have been in that pretty box tied up with a red ribbon. He taught us by example, to think of others, to share what we have, to give to those that are in need. That is how human nature is supposed to be.

'til next time,
Annie