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The Christmas Present

When I was growing up, my parents never took down our Christmas tree. It was a synthetic tree from the 1960s, its faded green branches plasticine and matted, imbued with the soot, tobacco, and laughter of the dozens of Christmases it had presided over, making no pretense of being an actual tree. It was bejeweled/smothered with a cacophany of lights- indoor and outdoor, colored and clear, blinking, non-blinking, and chasing. It was frenetic and tacky, more Jackson Pollack than Norman Rockwell, but we wouldn't have changed a thing about it. 

We celebrated Christmas by the fireplace in the basement and, as I was the only person to spend any time down there during the non-holidays, my parents felt there was no reason to put the tree away. So there it stood, keeping year round vigil, patiently waiting for that one month when it would be plugged in, and its full, seizure-inspiring glory could be realized.

One year an owl flew down our chimney and got trapped in the basement fireplace, and we had to call animal control. The officer that came was the first adult besides my parents to step foot in our basement in probably 15 years. When he saw the Christmas tree he grinned at my father. It was JUNE. I expected my dad to grin back at him, or look embarrassed. Instead he strode over to the tree and plugged it in. He crossed his arms and stared silently at the tree, looking past it really, the orange and green flashing lights and the red chasers dramatically illuminating his face. Finally he spoke. Gravely, almost inaudibly, he said, "We don't know if John is going to see another Christmas." The officer lowered his head, shamed, and I shot a bewildered side-eye at my father. He winked at me. We didn't even know anyone named John.

A few days before Christmas in 1981 I was in the basement cleaning things up for Christmas day when my father came downstairs. He looked very serious, and he had a wrapped gift in his hand. "Tommy, come here and sit down. I want to talk to you."

There was a gravitas in his voice that was usually reserved for when I was in trouble. Uneasily, I sat next to him. "I want to talk to you man to man. You're 16 now, and I want to tell you how proud I am of the man that you are becoming." This was bizarre. We were pretty close, but serious father/son talks like this were not part of our dynamic. We were not that family. " I have a special gift that I want to give to you, father to son, without anyone else around, because I want you to know how important you are to me. This gift encapsulates what you mean to me, as my Firstborn, as my Son, and as a Man. I think you'll understand when you open it."

Most of Dad's gifts looked like they had been speed wrapped by a drunken Picasso, but this one was exquisite, and I have never not wanted to open a present more. I was already horribly uncomfortable, and now I had to open a gift that I knew there was no way I would be able to appreciate the way I was supposed to. Whatever was in this box- my grandfather's war medals, my Dad's old watch, an engraved plaque- whatever it was, I knew it was beyond my powers as a 16 year old to appreciate in the adult way that my father obviously expected. I opened it hesitantly, planning my "sincere" reaction. As the box revealed itself my dread was replaced by confusion. I could see the word Ronco on the box. Ronco made Ginsu knives and the Pocket Fisherman, not antique cufflinks. I tore the rest of the paper off and stared, stunned, at what I was holding. It was a Ronco Inside-The-Shell Egg Scrambler, perhaps the most ludicrous, pointless, and silly product to ever actually get to market.

It was obviously a gag gift, but after all this lead up I was slow to react. My father smiled, but as I was still too confused to smile back, he started to blush, uncomfortable that I wasn't understanding. Finally, I started to laugh. It was perfect. The set up, the timing, and the over-seriousness, all leading up to the most ridiculous gift of all time- he played me perfectly. We were both laughing, and my father started quoting the commercial, "Fluffiest, most perfect eggs, evvvvvvery time!" "And no bowls to clean up, EVER!" I replied, and then we were both laughing too hard to speak.

That is my favorite Christmas memory, and that was my favorite Christmas present. Not the Inside-The -Shell scrambler, but that stolen moment with my dad, where our laughter was as natural and effortless as what we always hoped our relationship would be. Now that I am a father myself I can't wait until my daughter is old enough for her "Gift'. Hopefully she will laugh the way I laughed, the way she laughs at me now. She is 8, and I am currently her hero, but I have no expectation of that lasting into her teen years. When she gets her "gift' and laughs, and I know she will, another cycle will be complete. Even though she never got to meet him, she will have her grandfather's sense of humor. It is obvious to all who know her that it is already blossoming. It is a gift we both share, a gift that makes our relationship (and our relationships with others) stronger. And a gift that I trust will continue to be passed down from generation to generation. Ideally in a really cheesy but exquisitely wrapped Christmas present.

http://youtu.be/GdonmCgg3lE

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