Christmas Gift Department

I went to our writers' club meeting tonight. They let me read the story below. It was a test. The first sentence had to say, "The Christmas treasure I thought I'd never find..." and the last sentence had to say, "Quietly, I said 'Thank you'." Please enjoy. It's a Christmas gift from me to you.

The Shiniest Present
by
Paul Nichols

The Christmas treasure I thought I’d never find found me when I was a senior in high school. Our family was poor, but stable. Both Mom and Dad worked hard and saved hard to send my two older brothers on to college. My sister Ruthie and I knew better than to ask our folks for anything that might hinder those boys’ education. Anyway, they would have said, “You want? You work.”

But they always let us ask for a Christmas gift and tried their best to get it under the tree. For twelve years I gave them a list of five items. Every year, I started the list with an electric train and a watch. In my senior year I also included a new pair of wintertime gloves. Then a wallet; a store-bought wallet that wouldn’t unravel like the one I made at camp several summers ago. And finally, a new net for my basketball hoop. Those last three only cost five dollars each.

“Just get one,” I told Mom, “Not all of them.” I gave her the list and waited for Christmas.

My part-time, after-school job was at Maxwell’s Market, and I was usually home by 9:30—or else! If I had had a watch, I would have been home on time, every time. I once vowed I’d save up enough for a real nice watch.

Mom and Dad saw to it that I set aside a tithe and some savings, leaving me precious little spending money. But that year, I saved up enough to get Mom, Dad and Ruthie their Christmas gifts; little books full of inspirational quotes.

On Christmas morning Ruthie was up first and turned on the tree lights. She made just enough noise to get Dad up. He started some coffee. The two of them talked till Mom shuffled herself to my room and said, “Merry Christmas, honey. It’s time to get up.”

That year Mom and Dad put three gifts under the tree for me. Unusual indeed. The first, wrapped in “manly” paper, was a really nice pair of warm leather gloves. Then I unwrapped a new basketball net. I knew what I’d be doing later that day. And finally, a smooth, genuine cowhide wallet. I was pleased and liked it right away.

But I was also embarrassed. “Dad, you only had to get one. Not all of them,” I said. My parents were poor, yet here they were squandering all their money on me. But look! Ruthie got three presents, too! One was a little watch with a bright pink patent leather band.

“There’s one last present down here waiting for someone to claim it,” Dad said.

Huh? I hadn’t seen that down there before. “Ruthie,” he asked, “what’s it say on that name tag?” She looked at it and then looked at me. “It’s for you,” she said. “Here."

“But I already got… Where’d it come from?”

“Open it, honey,” Mom encouraged.

I peeled off the paper and discovered a brown plastic box, hardly big enough to hold a baseball. “Wha…?” It required some twisting and prying to pop it open. Inside was something shiny. “What’s this?” I didn’t recognize it because it was upside down. I had never received a shiny, upside down present before. I turned it ov… A watch! My eyes saw it, but my mind had to wait a minute to catch on.

A watch! They gave me a watch for Christmas! “I don’t think this is for me,” I said quickly.

“Yeah, it is!” my sister yelled. “I got one, too!”

“But Mom…Dad…” My eyes exploded with tears. “…this is a watch.” I lost all composure. Completely astonished and sobbing unchecked, I collapsed with my shiny gift clutched close to my chest. How could they afford this? Where did they get all the money? They already gave me three presents.

Dad reminded me, “Now you take good care of that watch and it will take good care of you.” Mom stood beside him, smiling proudly.

I don’t know if I was crying because I was so thrilled to have that watch, or crying because I was so proud of my hard-working parent’s extra income. They had just given me the shiniest present I ever got. I stumbled across the room and hugged my mom. Whispering quietly, I said, “Thank you.”

Copyright 2008 by Paul Nichols

Jesus: He became like us so that we can become like him. Merry Christmas.

Business Department

I hope to print my book in the spring of '09. Here are three excerpts I'm adding to "Adventures at 1122-7th Street." Please enjoy.

In the 50s, people prided themselves on the length of their Christmas card list. The more names on your list, the more cool you were. I don’t know where I got the bright idea to sell Christmas cards. But I sold them for a few years. In August and September!

I carried a thick ring binder with several Christmas card samples. “Hmmm, these are beautiful cards, Paul. All of them. I don’t know which one to choose. I guess I’ll take two boxes of these.”

“And I’d like a box of these and one of these.”

I also carried a smaller binder with type style samples and decorative add-ons. My customers chose a card, the type style for their pre-printed names, and the add-ons they’d like. “This is cute. How much extra? Oh, don’t worry about it; go ahead and order it.”

I called on a few teachers, some church folks, most of the ladies in the neighborhood and a few random homes where I wasn’t afraid to knock.

I was always surprised when the ladies invited me in and looked over my cards. Then they ordered a box. Or two! An order of three or four boxes was not uncommon. In fact, an order of one box was rare. Then they gave me some money, which I kept in a match box hidden in the dining room buffet.

My business partner was Mom. On the night before deadline, we sat together at the dining room table and she carefully completed the big order form for me. She wrote out a check and whatever was left in that match box was mine to keep. I thought that was about the neatest deal ever conceived. Next day, I rode my bicycle to the post office and mailed everything off. I think I had to pay extra for the thick envelope. Maybe five cents. About the middle of November the Railway Express truck delivered two or three good-sized boxes of beautiful, custom Christmas cards.

Then I delivered them to all my customers. (Mom took some to her workplace; Dad a couple to his.) “Oh, don’t these look just beautiful!” In just a day or two, I was done with it and had some spending money to boot.

I sold Christmas card for three or four years and Mom always did the paperwork. She never made a mistake, and, as far as I know, no one ever called to complain about quality or (my) service. Mom and I should have gone into business.

* * * * * * *

In the middle-50s; Johnson Cleaners burned down. So naturally, all the dry cleaning waiting to get cleaned and all the dry cleaning waiting to get picked up went up in smoke. Pretty soon everything, including the building, got scooped up and hauled out to the dump. About the time to re-open, the Johnson’s appealed to all the Boy Scouts and Cub Scouts to round up as many hangers as we could find. They promised us a dime a dozen.

We got old ones and new ones; white ones and plain ones; bent ones and straight ones and when Johnson’s reopened they were back in the dry cleaning (and hanging) business again. There were more than enough hangers to get re-started, thanks to all the Douglas scouts. Charlie Ables, who was in my Cub Pack, won a prize for collecting the most hangers. We all did such a good job that I think the Johnson’s are still in business.

* * * * * * *

When I was in the 6th Grade, they told us we had to take these forms to all our neighbors and get magazine subscriptions. If we sold this many we’d get a football or something. If we sold that many we could get a Red Ryder BB Gun. And for just this many a Schwinn Bicycle! The girls could get girl stuff.

I didn’t sell any because my parents had more magazines coming to the house than anyone in town. My own parents didn’t even buy any magazines. But somebody must have because that pesky magazine fundraising company is still in business.

* * * * * * *

There’s a joke floating around Texas. “Hey, you want a coke?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

“Dr Pepper.”

There was a time when all soft drinks were sold in two kinds of bottles. It didn’t matter what you called them—Pepsi, 7-Up, Orange Crush, RC Cola, Dr Pepper, Dad’s Root Beer—they all came in coke bottles or pop bottles. Now, if you purchased a soft drink from a machine (5¢), you were supposed to hang around there till you finished drinking it. Then you were supposed to return your empty bottle to a rack or box near the machine. However, when you bought a bottle of pop in a store (usually 8¢ to 10¢), it was okay to take the bottle with you because you had paid a few cents extra for deposit on the bottle. So then later, return the empty bottle to any store and get your deposit back. Or use the empty bottle as deposit on the next one. Or collect several empty bottles and return them all at once for some nice pocket change. In the 50s, bottle deposits ranged from 2¢ to 5¢. With prices like that, I should have gone into the returned bottle business.

* * * * * * *

You may want to visit Adventures at 1122-7th Street for hours and hours of delightful reading.

Editorial Department at WFTH

Normally, blog editorials from Station WFTH are not controversial. This one is—if you’re a Michael Savage fan. My First Wife and I occasionally listened to his radio program—if it was convenient. But no more after his awful, brutal, insensitive, uneducated, biased, unnecessary, foolish, holier-than-thou, arrogant, hateful remarks he made about children with Autism recently. Children, of all people!

We sent a letter to two execs at The Big City radio station that carries his program. We ain’t a’listening any more, and asked that station to dump his program. We’re writing to his advertisers, too.

In Mississippi, seven radio stations booted him, saying “Michael Savage’s comments about autistic children were beyond inexcusable and are unacceptable.” They got that right. AFLAC insurance left him sitting in his own goo, too. The executive director of Autism United called his remarks “reprehensible.” And they are.

In his bigoted remarks he claimed that his father told him not to act like a fool. Right there’s a lesson he apparently never learned. I suggest that he owes hundreds of thousands of people an apology. Here are just a few.

• There are a brazillion autistic children who have mommies and daddies, brothers and sisters who love them and care about them. Each one has a name and a personality etched in the hearts of their families and their communities.
• Our seven-year-old grandson has Autism. Joshua isn’t a moron, a putz or an idiot.
• Joshua’s father (our son) is at home with him parenting and guiding with love, discipline and strength. He is not an absent father, nor is he a “…loser or a beaten man.”
• His mother who bore him and who is delivering a wonderful, educated, active young man to a bright and beautiful future.
• All of Joshua’s grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Because Mr. Savage deliberately insulted our grandson, he deliberately insulted both of our families—yes, all of us.

Mr. Savage claims he’s a conservative. He’s the kind of conservative that bred Adolph Hitler, Kim Jong Il, Pol Pot, Saddam Hussein and a bus load of African henchmen.

Mr. Savage is a Wiener. I say put him out of business.

Three Roses

Another delightful short story from my forthcoming book, We Found the Vacuum Cleaner.

For Gladys there were too many groceries to choose from. Exactly two weeks ago Lester had that heart attack and suffered for three hours. In that time he was awake only long enough to whisper, “I’ll never leave you alone, hon.” But before the afternoon was gone, he was gone, too. Gladys was alone. Their marriage ended without warning after thirty-five years.

Now on this Tuesday morning—her first shopping trip since the funeral—Gladys wandered alone through the grocery aisles wondering how much milk to get. “A quart, I guess. I’ll get a quart.” Then she had to decide about bread. A long loaf or short? “I can’t eat this much celery.” How many cans of soup? Is this too much? Enough?

The shelves and shelves of cans blurred together. The tall end-caps of chips and cereal hovered over her. “Where’s the rice?” She begged. “Where’s the rice?” And then she began to cry. “Oh dear Jesus, please help me.” The tears raced down her lonely cheeks.

Whenever Lester shopped with Gladys, he always stepped away. “I’m going to look for some coffee,” he’d say. Or “Don’t we need to get a birthday card? I’ll go get it.” Or some silly excuse. The last time, he took off saying, "We don't have any cookies for the grandbabies." And he always came back to Gladys with three yellow roses. Always. And right there in the grocery store Lester kissed her cheek. He wouldn’t step away any more...

“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you okay?” A soft voice. “Ma’am?”

Gladys muscled up what strength she had to say, “I think so.” She opened her purse for a tissue. "Yes, I’m fine."

“Can I help you?” She was a pretty woman, maybe forty. “Here,” the young woman said, and offered Gladys a tissue.

“I… I need rice,” Gladys said.

“Uh, did you need it for an adult or for a baby, ‘cause we’re in baby food right now.”

Gladys shook.

“Come on,” the young woman said. “I know where it is. My name’s Janice.”

With a box of rice in her cart now, Gladys smiled a little and said, “Thank you. I’m sure I’m fine now. Thank you.”

Janice moved away to find her own groceries. Gladys followed her to the meat and watched Janice dig out six packages of steak. “My husband loves his steak,” she said, and dropped them into her cart. But suddenly, she put them back where she found them. “I just can’t get them right now. Not at these prices.”

“Buy the steak,” Gladys told her, surprised at the strength in her voice. “Buy those steaks if he likes them.”

“Oh, no, I’d better not. They’re just getting too expensive.”

“I lost my husband just two weeks ago. You buy your husband those steaks. Sing when you cook them. Enjoy the moment you serve them. Cherish your meal time together.”

Janice stared at Gladys. Without taking her eyes off Gladys, she gently returned the steak packages to her cart. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you for helping me,” Gladys said and smiled.

“Well, I still have some more things to get,” Janice said. She turned away quickly and vanished among the shelves. Gladys breathed a deep, new breath and chose a steak of her own. She shuffled away toward another aisle. It was an easier task now.

When she approached the check-out stand, Janice was waiting. “Hi again. May I give you these?” She offered a long, light package to Gladys.

Gladys peeled back the green tissue to find three long-stem yellow roses. Delicately, she touched her fingertips to them. Tears rushed back, but with a little smile she said, “Oh, thank you.” She pulled the flowers to her breasts and closed her eyes. She remembered Lester's last promise: "I'll never leave you alone.”

“Ma’am, you were such an angel to me today." Janice had a beautiful smile and strong, clear brown eyes. "I really needed to hear what you told me. I wanted you to have these. Really, thank you.”

Gladys offered a warm hug. “Thank you, honey,” she said. “I was lonely. Thank you for speaking to me. You were my angel. God bless you. I love yellow roses. How did you know?”

Janice kissed her cheek.

Department of Turds

Let me tell you something wonderful. “Grandkids.”

A tip of the hat to my granddaughter’s first grade teacher who has introduced journal writing to her class.

Now here’s something wonderful to read, written by my Texas Granddaughter. First Grade; almost age 7.

"When my dad went out of town we had to stay home with my mom and then one night my dog polly came in and wined to my mom and my mom said go away and polly went away but she had to go to the bath-room so she went poup in the living-room and then she pouped in the game-room and then my mom woke up in the morning and saw bofe of the turds and she yelled gha and she had to pike um up with a dish towl.

Written by Darby …”

Illustrated by Darby, too.


"Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow. "—Real Simple Magazine

Diaries Department

In my January 1 post I proclaimed the discovery of my father’s diaries. Fifty years worth of handwritten diaries! As I said then, “…it has fallen to me to transcribe them.”

Lemme tell you something: Don’t try this at home!

This is a wonderful task, but it’s slow and painstaking. Dad’s writing style is the biggest problem. Poor punctuation and inconsistency with the time of day are two big trouble spots. Of course, penmanship is sometimes a stumbling block, but I figure it out sooner or later. I have so far completed eight years. That’s 2,900+ days. Only 42 years to go.

Okay, all that being said—I’m having the time of my life. I’m discovering things I never knew before. I’ve been reminded of things I had forgotten. I’m seeing facets of my Dad I was unaware of. I’ve seen love, tenderness and compassion; anger, excitement and fear. I’ve been surprised. I’ve been touched. I’ve been amused and saddened. I’ve found old friends. I’ve gone back to empty desert places that are now urban sprawl. I can verify some of the incidents of my childhood. I wonder about an occasional mysterious entry. Other times I exclaim, “Hey, yeah. That’s right!” This is quite the exciting project.

Two things really stand out.

First, Dad had no respect for punctuation. A simple – or a = was all he needed for commas and periods. Once in awhile he did use a period at the end of a sentence. But why? He always included the time he went to work (8 a.m. to 4 p.m., 8:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. or 12:01 a.m. to 8 a.m.). He was pretty creative about it, too. Suppose he worked 8 – 4 for two weeks. Well, then he could write 8 – 4 fourteen different ways. Some of those times are unheard of in the annals of English style guides. Sheesh!

Second, as I read and type, I get lost in time. In this cold winter of 2008, awakened old senses warm me with Arizona’s summer heat. Ah, baseball in Arizona! I spent most of yesterday typing November and December 1954. Last evening with my brother, I told him it felt like November to me right now. Thanksgiving can’t be far away. He looked at me kinda funny. Again.

I repeat: Don’t try this at home. It’s just too wonderful.

Department of Affection

My First Wife and I celebrated our wedding anniversary last November. I gave her some little trinket to acknowledge the day. (Hey, at least I remembered.) However, she went the second mile and surprised me completely. Look how she expressed her love for her man! (That would be me.)

There are several reasons excuses why I haven’t published this sooner, but let me tell that you I’m one blessed man. And lemme also tell you: I’m mighty proud to drive around in my pickup!

I’m mightier proud that she let me marry her.

By the way, get over to My Hats Blog. Quick! Happy stuff.

Writing Department

I went to my regular monthly writers’ club meeting last night for the first time in 13 months. I lifted this writing gem. It’s attributed to T.M. King. I’m sorry, but I don’t know who that is. Anyway…

“Writing is as easy as strolling down an alley: just put one word in front of the other and see what happens.

“Good writing is as easy as running headlong through that same alley at midnight, toppling garbage cans and stepping on the tail of a screeching cat; stumbling over a bum and a broken wine bottle; fighting your way through a gang of cutthroats—and living to tell about it from a hospital bed.

“Excellent writing is as easy as explaining to your spouse why you were in that alley at midnight in the first place.”

I have a question now: why would anyone step on the tail of a cat that's already screeching? I guess it's just the editor in me, raising it's ugly head.

“When writing, the difference between a carefully selected excellent word and using just any word is like the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”—Mark Twain (they say)