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My father met us after work at Granny's. He arrived in his white uniform, the creases dusted with flour, his person smelling of freshly baked bread. We gave him the gift we had bought with his money, and for a few moments he let down his guard, smiled, and even joked. He shook the gift, weighed it in his hand, smelled it, and listened to it for a clue. He guessed wrong. After tearing off the paper and faking surprise he opened the bottle and smelled it and smiled.
"Your eyes may shine, your teeth may grit," he said, "but this here present you ain't gonna get."
We howled with delight. He set the bottle back down, probably never to touch it again. We glued ourselves to the next color television program while baking mincemeat and sweet potato pie filled the house with good smells. As the day fell into shadow, I realized sadly that another Christmas was rapidly passing, and that the wonderful anticipation and enchantment of awaiting Christmas Day was worth much more than a lapful of opened presents. Christmas rose high above reality, was a time when a child or parent could truly believe in Santa Claus, the Christ child, and reindeer that flew. Maybe the new year would bring a bout of flu, disease might strike the hogs, and the bills would start to roll in. But for a brief few weeks those worries seemed trivial when compared to one's dreams. My father as a boy had delighted in a fresh orange for Christmas; he and my mother gave me plastic rocket ships. But more important, in the warm glow of that kerosene heater, I possessed the security and confidence that one day I might fly a real rocket to the moon. I could give no more valuable gift to my own children today than that trust. Tear into that tinsel, child, through ribbon and cardboard, cast it all aside, and go for what you know lies inside. Worry about the future next week or the next; this charmed day, this era in your life, will pass too soon.
From A Very Southern Christmas, edited by Charline R. McCord and Judy H. Tucker. Originally published in Keeper of the Moon, Down Home Press, copyright 1991 by Tim McLaurin. Reprinted by permission of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, a division of Workman Publishing.
