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42 6 Christmas Stores of Wonder & Love

6 Christmas Stories of

Wonder and Love

Continued From Page 41

Catch

Following Christmas dinner, my family was
relaxing around the kitchen table. We had all
enjoyed traditional turkey, sweet potatoes lightly
glazed with brown sugar, and a final wedge of
pumpkin pie topped with a dollop of ice cream.
The good cooking smells still lingered; the oven
remained warm. My sister, our chef, was
basking in the compliments—“Fabulous meal,”
“I really couldn’t eat another bite,” “Everything
was wonderful.” Dad had risen from his chair
and was contentedly standing nearby.
My nephew, never one to sit still for too
long, began dribbling his new basketball around
the table and throughout the kitchen. Upon
nearing Dad, he stopped—almost uncertainly.
With shaking, wrinkled hands, Dad had reached
out for the ball. He did not speak, and the boy,
confused, looked up and over at us. It took some
convincing, but the ball was gingerly passed
over.
A Christmas Present, Delayed satisfied my dad’s Naval sense of order.
I watched my father closely to see what The downside was we opened one
he would do. A playful smile appeared on his
I was ten the summer my dad helped me buy my present at a time so everyone could “appreciate”
face. The twinkle in his eyes shone brighter than
first ten-speed bicycle from Father Allen. I put each other’s gifts. Neither Liz nor I
any Christmas lights. Holding the ball and
up $60 of my grass cutting and snow shoveling “appreciated” this system because we went last.
reaching forward, Dad bounced it on the floor
money, and my dad put up the other half. I After the obligatory “oohs” and “aahs,” each of
then caught it.
would pay him back in installments over the us held up our present for family review, a
This action was repeated. Nodding
next six months. Although it was the kind of process that averaged about five minutes or so.
approvingly, he then turned towards our bike you’d expect a priest to have (dull silver, This meant Liz and I had to wait about forty-five
assembled group. Gently tossing the ball away,
slightly worn, no baseball cards in the spokes), it minutes between each present, so patience was
Dad began a game of catch.
was my ticket to the adult world. in short supply—when one of us pulled out a
The ball continued to be passed through
I spent that summer and autumn riding as belt or package of underwear, we seethed the
eager pairs of outstretched hands. Cries of “Over
if to put Greg LeMond to shame. My sister Liz, entire time.
here!” rang through the warm kitchen. Dad’s
a prisoner of her five-speed and banana seat, My dad, a master showman, liked to
active participation in this game was remarkable
never had a chance to keep up. We’d always keep a few of Santa’s better presents for the end.
to me, since he had advanced Alzheimer’s
been stuck with hand-me-downs from our older On that fateful Christmas morning, he gave me
disease. This dementia had robbed him of many
brothers and sisters, a few of whom had a used portable record player. I was ecstatic—I
memories and the recognition of people, places notoriously bad taste in bikes. Now, however, I was finally untethered from the “family stereo”
and points in time. Despite this, Dad clearly
was able to ride to every corner of town, that all of us fought over.
recognized the ball and what you could do with
sometimes even as far as the beach. In those Alas, my elation was short-lived after
it.
heady days before one acquires a driver’s my dad called my sister to the kitchen. “We have
In my younger years, playing with Dad
license, a good bike is a magic carpet. one more gift for you,” he said as he opened the
was rare. To his credit, Dad worked hard and
Just before the Christmas deadline to pay door that led to the garage. There, on the steps,
provided for us. He was very private and never
my dad back, we were hit with several stood a brand new ten-speed Schwinn. I didn’t
showed nor shared much emotion; his game of
snowstorms. This allowed me to shovel enough hear her screams of joy—all I could hear was the
choice was chess, which he did eventually teach
driveways to pay off my debt. I was now sputtering engine of the lawnmower, the endless
me how to play. As an adult, I had become a officially a bike owner; it was a feeling unlike scraping of the metal snow shovel on concrete.
caregiver and watched helplessly as Dad
any other. I’d endured far too many hours of indentured
declined. Connecting moments between father
It’s important to note that while my mom servitude for my used bike; that Santa could give
and son had been few and far between before he
and dad were fantastic parents, they couldn’t be Liz this sparkling machine less than a week later
took the basketball.
trusted with the awesome responsibility of was a sign that he was losing his touch. Could
I’m not sure how long we played catch.
buying appropriate Christmas presents. They Mrs. Claus be putting something in his food?
Watching the clock was not important. Dad
were too quick to pass off gloves, sneakers, and I slumped onto the floor. My ten-speed
gleefully led us until he began to tire. What I do
shirts as “presents.” And while we might say a chariot had turned into a pumpkin in the time it
know is that our game ended all too soon, and it
prayer over the Baby Jesus in the manger on our took my sister to hop on the gleaming leather
was time to face the reality of dirty dishes piled
way to church, He seemed too busy at this time seat.
high on countertops. The moment, though, will
of year to leave presents under the tree. We “Let’s go for a ride, Rob!” she sang, my
certainly last forever. On this Christmas, Dad
outsourced our requests for the really good dad holding the bike upright as she put her feet
gave me a special memory—one that I will
presents to Santa. on the pedals.
always treasure.
For her family of seven kids, my mom “Too snowy to ride,” I muttered, pushing
- Rick Lauber
developed a system in which she decorated the the record player farther away from me. The
outside of seven large boxes with different types symbolism seemed lost on my dad.
MERRY CHRISTMAS and a very
of wallpaper. We each had our own box that
HAPPY NEW YEAR
contained six or so presents, and we’d close our (Continued On Page 43)
from
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