It’s Not The Size of The Gift

            Whether it was my birthday or Christmas, the gifts always overflowed in our house. Even when it was my brother’s turn to celebrate, my parents always had a present for me. Every December 25, when we ran into the living room, I never once was left disappointed at the overflow of toys. One year, my dad stood in the aisle of Child World and demanded the clerk go in the back and get an Evil Knievel  action figure because he knew they were there. I had long since stopped believing in Santa Claus, but that year, he existed in a short little man whom I resembled more and more. It’s one of my best memories.  

     

            I don’t remember the exact date, maybe around 1942 – I must have been around nine years old. Pa was coming home from work and as always impeccably dressed. He would never even go to the corner store unless he was shaved and wearing his soft hat. He was almost to our house when he handed me a stick. It was broom like and red with a mechanical device on the bottom. Every time I would strike the ground with it, a cap would explode. What a happy kid I was.

     

            For years, I could never picture my father as a young boy – much less one who smiled with such wonderful memories.



     

My grandparents - my papa is holding one of his famous soft hats.

           




            Over the years, I've traveled quite a bit and been to places my father has never been, nor any of my relatives. But without fail, I always bring back something for them - no matter how small and trivial it may seem. My mother has a million magnets from places she has never been and I fear that one day her refrigerator will fall over from the weight of them. My grandmother's sister has gotten chocolates from Belgium, trinkets from London and momentos from the countries in Europe that I've visited. To this day, I continually bring back something, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem. I realize now that my father instilled that simple, yet loving gesture in me.

                       



            Uncle Tony’s son Ralph was always unemotional – not as warm as his brother Anthony. Every time he came home on leave from the service, Aunt Angie, his mother, would invite us over. Of course, Ma would always give him a few dollars, it was her way. One time, home from Italy, he gave several people a little gift, smelling soaps and handkerchiefs. Along with Angie’s older sister being left out – was Ma. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now that I write about it, I can see how much it affected me. She turned to me and said, wistfully, “I wish he gave me a bar of soap for my drawer.” In contrast, when I went to Mexico, spending three months with the guard in Texas, I mailed home wallets, pocketbooks and a colorful blanket for everyone.

My grandparents with my Aunt Angie, who always had a story to tell, and I foolishly never wrote them down.

             It's that simple really  - something so small can make someone so happy. I'd like to take credit for learning that, but it seems my father instilled that in me long before I even knew.