My Favorite Christmas Memory

My Favorite Christmas Memory

An imaginative tale, based on a cold Sunday morning in 1998

“Where are we going, daddy?” the constantly inquisitive little girl queried her father.  Although she was in high school, she still attended church weekly with her family and cherished every sweet moment of family time.  Her confusion showed on her face as her father turned the car not towards their fine home or a nice restaurant for lunch, but towards the crowded shopping mall.

His simple reply came, “I heard in church today that the Marines need more toys, so we are going to get some.”  The girl knew of the Marines and the Toys for Tots drive, which collected new toys and distributed them to needy children.  Her family often assisted with such projects through monetary donations.  The mother sat quietly in the front seat looking somewhat annoyed, but not saying a word.  

When they reached the large toy store, the mother placed the youngest girl into a shopping basket while the father issued each of the two older girls a basket of their own.  He told them that they should go and choose items to place in the baskets for the toy drive.  The mother with baby in tow and the middle daughter set off immediately.  The mother searched for bargains and toys which would get a lot of value per dollar spent.  The middle child followed behind, cautiously adding items to her basket as well.  The oldest girl began to fill her own basket with reckless abandon, excitedly reaching for her favorite items and dumping them into the basket.  

As she rounded a corner there he was, her father as she had never seen him before.  He was in the sporting goods aisle fingering a football.  As she watched he touched the pigskin taking in the soft feel and the rich leathery scent before placing it in his basket. She approached quietly, taking a volleyball and gently running her hands over the soft leather and instantly she understood his reverie.  She re-lived the day in seventh grade when she had first touched one.  Retracing the word Tachikara stamped in black letters on the white ball brought back the exhaustion of early morning practices, the pain of digging a good spike, and the elation of a come from behind win.  She watched her father imagining his own memories of football workout that pushed the limits of what he could do, yelling coaches, locker room laughs, and Friday night lights.  

He moved on to a basketball, smelling the tinny smell of new rubber and feeling the fresh dapples on the unscratched ball.  She selected a women’s leather basketball, just like the one he had bought her.  Their minds touched as each daydreamed of the nights they had spent together on their driveway court at home.  From the old days of playing HORSE on her roller skates, through lopsided one-on-one, to more complex drills as her skill improved.  The day they spray painted a free throw line on their driveway, the first time she had bested him at PIG, the times when mom or a little sister had joined in, each memory a flash in a string of bulbs, yet each distinct.  

He stiffened, seeming to notice her presence and quickly said, “I used to like these when I was a kid, I bet some kids will still like them.”  She quickly agreed, dropping the ball into her nearly full basket.  They continued side by side down the aisle, talking and laughing, each adding sporting goods to their collections.  

Then they divided, she heading for the Cabbage Patch dolls, briefly considering the $25 dollar cost versus the much cheaper dolls available, but remembering her own childhood memories she carefully selected one.  She piled it into the basket reminiscing of the hand sewn gowns, haircuts, plane rides, and sleepless nights she had shared with her own precious doll.

Reconvening at the checkout stand she noticed the tents in his basket.  They brought back a plethora of rich memories.  As a very young child the father had made her tents, tepees, and forts out of couch cushions where she and her stuffed raccoon had played for hours.  Memories of Sunday evenings spent with her cousins playing house under grandma’s dining room table with the long tablecloth and the peach velvet chairs. Nights spent in the yellow and blue backyard tent that never seemed to last all night, but playing chess, checkers, backgammon, and mastermind with her father.  Building a fort in the backyard together, and most recently sleeping side by side on two-inch thick air pads in a tiny tent at the bottom of the Grand Canyon that summer. 

The mother smiled ruefully as the father and girls gleefully unloaded piles of items from their baskets.  The young checker looked confused, but rang up the purchases.  As she unloaded her own items, including coloring books, stories, beads, and crafts similar to the ones she had shared with her own daughters, a faint smile graced her lips.  

The youngest child giggled with delight at the piles of toys crossing the counter.  The middle daughter still appeared shocked at being able to select so many things.  The eldest smiled broadly as her own purchases were rung up.  Although each girl knew that the toys would not be their own, they took ownership of their own selections and took pride in their good choices.

The family loaded the bulging plastic sacks into their SUV and headed to the nearby donation center.  The baby-faced marines in their crisp black uniforms accepting to toys greeted them cheerfully as the father announced that the family had items to donate.  

A white-gloved hand reached out expecting the father to hand him an item, but surprise registered as the entire family exited the vehicle instead.  The father opened the rear door and a bag spilled out.  The two young men’s faces glinted with awe as they beheld the pile of packages.

“All of this?” he asked.

“Yes,” the father replied unable to hide his broad smile.  The joy of giving lit up his face as he assisted with the transfer of items.  The marines repeated their thanks over and over.

The family headed home to a simple lunch and more shopping, wrapping, packing, and living.  The incident was never mentioned again.

Ten years later

I reached into my mental files searching to answer a silly question on a holiday questionnaire.  “What is your favorite Christmas memory?”  Sounds simple enough.  My mind pores over so many wonderful times from my blessed life.  

Maybe it was the year I got the My Little Pony Dream House.  I wanted it for months, begging my parents for it each time I saw it on TV.  It would be the perfect place for all my ponies, and it comes with so much furniture too.  Then, on Christmas morning, there it was right in front of the fireplace.  It was the best gift ever!  But it was not the best Christmas memory.

There was the year that we got the pool table that was also an air hockey table.  Even though I had to share it with my sisters, it was a good gift.  The best part about that was that my father and I had awakened first that morning and played it first.  Just the two of us, sharing the beauty and calm of Christmas morning alone before anyone else awoke.  Before the noise, mess, bustle, and shouts of unwrapping the multitude of gifts those quiet moments with dad will always be special.

Making Christmas cookies with mom was another favorite memory.  Dying the colored icing, rolling the dough and cutting stars, candy canes, and bells, watching them bake to perfection, and tasting the results.

So many family traditions like selecting the perfect tree, hanging the stockings over the mantle, the delicious Mexican food feast flashed through my thoughts.  My sister and I singing our own rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy” in the car came to mind, as well as the thrill of climbing on the roof while hanging Christmas lights.  Way back in my mind lurks the memory of hanging lights on the rounded windows in the front of the old house on Dodge.  More recently tales of ski trips, gingerbread houses, meeting relatives, and new in-laws join the parade.  Eating Andes mints and tasting Gran’s homemade rolls top the list of food items.  Wrapping beautiful packages with fancy bows and playing with my cousins, pass along the train of remembrances.  Childhood traditions of driving around looking at Christmas lights and visiting grandma late of Christmas Eve night remain the favorites.

I settle on a story of going to the candlelight service at my grandmother’s church.  I can hear the choir singing carols and can feel the waxy candle in my hands, surrounded by its cardboard holder.  Seeing my grandmother’s eyes light up as her voice soars to the heavens fills me with joy.  This must be the best Christmas memory.

Then somewhere, in the back of my crowded mind, a feel a small nudge from a quiet memory.  The story of the toys has been waiting to be remembered.  As I open that long lost file, the feelings flood back, the pure joy of shopping with reckless abandon, the pride of finally finding the perfect gift, and the beauty of giving because you can.  

That trip did not involve a to do list with names of obligatory gift recipients, nor a requirement that each must be wrapped beautifully and uniquely.  There was no time schedule, price limit, or shipping cost. 

That simple, unplanned expedition will forever be etched in my mind as a picture of the perfect holiday.  One not filled with gifts, but with giving.