The gifts we give are those we receive

I woke this morning early angry at myself for the inability to sleep late.  Outside it was rainy—just enough to be a mess—and probably freezing.  Immediate thoughts went to my grandparents who had a dairy about 60 miles from my childhood home.  Those of you who know dairy folks understand their lives are not easy but dedicated. 

I thought of my grandparents this early Christmas morning—they would milk their cows, pack their car, and drive the hour to our home on Christmas mornings and arrive long before we woke for Santa.  They loved Christmas, especially Granddad, who was as excited as we were about “Santy Claus” coming.  He was loud when he laughed and clapped at a good joke. 

In the late afternoon of Christmas day, the melancholy of their leaving was heavy—even though they had left presents galore in pretty paper along with fresh eggs, milk, cream, preserves and home canned garden vegetables which made all year a bountiful plenty.

They both died twenty years ago this year, a few months apart.  My Granddad died near Christmastime and, as a fitting tribute, on the same day as his closest brother—even though they were 400 miles apart.  They were buried the same day with services by the same preacher.  I kept thinking my Grandparents held on for each other until they seemed both resigned to leave this world with all the good they taught us to remember.

This year, one of my friends’ five year old daughter compared my visits to Santa’s.

“When will Larry visit?  He’s our friend and brings us treats because he’s our friend,” she said on Christmas Eve.  (I admit I had to make another trip to Target’s Barbie aisle after hearing that comment.)  She hugged me tight when I got there and even tighter when I left.  All in pink tutu, pink necklace, pink shirt, pink suede boots and hair with a pink ribbon, playing with Tinkerbelle and Fairy friends and all of them in conversation she creates.  My heart will never forget that simple question and her sincere hugs.

My nephews, both in their twenty somethings, were here Christmas Eve and I always buy them silly toys (and maybe some extra for me).  We played with the remote control car that climbs walls and even the ceiling and they laughed that I was so intense on if “It really works!”. 

One nephew brought his dog, Buddy, who he rescued a year or so ago, but privately I think Buddy rescued my nephew.  He admits the dog might be a handful, but he can return from work and Buddy is there to great him with excited energy.

“I have Buddy to keep me company at night, rather than wait for another day by myself,” he said.  That is probably the best quote for advocating the Humane Society adoption program.

One of the goofy things I put in the nephew’s stocking were Pop Rocks candy—that crackling candy that reminded me of my 1970’s youth and the urban myth (?) that you would die if you drank a coke and ate Pop Rocks at the same time. 

Buddy decided he wanted Pop Rocks and Nephew obliged.  Buddy was thrilled with the popping and crackling; he actually climbed on Nephew’s back and wagged his tail with delight.  Was it the thrill of the candy—or was it the thrill of hearing the laughter of Nephew? 

The giving is the gift to the giver.  Right?

That’s what makes Grandparents drive in early mornings to get there before Santa arrives—on road conditions long before state of the art anti-skidding computerized automobiles or weather-ready tires.

That’s what keeps the ‘hug’ the memory, not the brand of the gift.

And isn’t that what makes us happiest—to see the joy on the face of the Giver?

Those are the images we remember.