My Wife's Christmas Gift To Me
By J. Grant Swank Jr. (12/20/08)
It had been a rough year--especially rough. So I was not looking forward to Christmas at all.
We were living in a "between the times" quarters, most of our things stored away in friends' houses and garages. One child was in the Midwest, another south of us and the third in Canada.
Besides, a good friend was dying of cancer, one of the worst scenes. Another friend had just suffered a heart attack. And still a third was wrestling with the progressing stages of lupus.
Finances were slim. Severe cold winter gusts were swirling about us. Another blizzardy New England winter was being forecast.
I could have just as easily skipped Christmas--the whole winter, in fact--and pounced myself into spring's Eastertide. But neighborhood stores already were decorated in red and green, so there was no stopping the season's rush.
On the day after Thanksgiving, I was particularly bushed. If I were really honest, I wound confess that I was quite depressed. Though I had tried the mind games of pulling myself out of the blues, I was not all that successful.
I am sure that my wife, Priscilla, detected the down mood. And so did Heidi, our teen just arrived home from college for the holidays.
"I think we should buy a tree before Heidi goes back to the campus," Priscilla logically offered as Thanksgiving Day celebrations faded away.
I had thought we could just as well squeeze a tree purchase into sometime later; but I knew I did not stand a chance for postponement. So off to spy out the propped trees strung about one vacant lot after another. Finally, we came upon one tiny specimen that could fit into our temp dwelling.
(I would just as soon get an artificial tree and be done with it, I thought convincingly to my weary head. But I knew that being married to a Nova Scotian, such an option stood not a chance).
"That one!" Priscilla exclaimed. She had an eye for the perfect tree every year. So into the van the clerk carefully positioned that hunk of green. (Now all those needles will have to be swept out of my van!, I groused to myself. And I will be delegated to do it!)
"Tilt it to the right just a little." Back in the living room, Priscilla was playing sidewalk superintendent when it came to leveling the tree balance. I was crouched beneath the branches. Heidi was doing the heavy looking on.
"There, no, now a little to the left. Yep. That's it!" With her smile of satisfaction, Priscilla had pronounced her seal of approval.
"Now to the lights. Let's string the lights! I have an extra set of lights this year, one that I came upon that I had forgotten all about." Assignment given: Priscilla and I now would lace those tiny pointed creatures all over the tree limbs till the room glistened brightly.
But this year, I was not all that enthused about the stringing of lights. Not good for a grown fellow, I lectured myself. Nevertheless. . .
With that, the phone rang. One of Heidi's friends was calling--chat time ad infinitum coming up. So Priscilla meandered into the kitchen to finish baking apple pies, her culinary spaciality.
"Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright. . ." a Christmas CD played in the background.
Ah-h, an interruption in the lights-stringing plans, I concluded. Fine. Time to stretch out on the couch. So in short order, Happy the cat joined atop my frame for a reprieve. An afghan covered the two of us--snuggly nestled, we were.
I suppose about an hour passed, though of course I was oblivious to its ticking away. However, finally focusing my bleary eyes while pulling my body to upright posture after a nap, I could not help but take in the colored sparkles before me. They were all over that tree. In addition, a neatly positioned artificial snow circle had been place at the base of that tree. . .along with Christmas decorations on hutch shelves, end tables and in the windows.
"You've done it!" I said, a bit sheepishly.
Yes. Priscilla had quietly strung the lights and started with the house decorations. She knew that I was not up to this project this particular year; so instead of pushing for the unpleasant, she gave me her first gift for the holy days.
Thank you, Priscilla. Thank you very much. You are a most thoughtful wife, indeed.
(Printer friendly version) Email: J. Grant Swank Jr.
