As a story this tale was born on the spur of the moment. Through a foolish confusion of dates on my part, I was unexpectedly confronted at my classroom door, one day, with about 25 school children from a different class who were expecting some Christmas stories for a 55 minute class period. They would be followed by three similar groups for the remaining class periods of the school day.
I sometimes wonder if divine inspiration prompted my decision to create a story, on the spot, out of this very real experience that was on my mind that early December day. I still tell this story often during this season. It has been good therapy for me. Rarely can I tell it without a catch in my voice and moist eyes.
Over the years I have polished it here and there. I sometimes now sandwich it between halves of a World War II anecdote, but for today I will record something approaching the way I told it four times at Armuchee Elementary School 15 or 20 years ago. The story is set even earlier in the days leading up to this day, December 3, 36 years ago and the following 22 days.
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A Christmas Gift
Charles loved being a daddy; he had seven children. But I think he loved being a granddaddy even more. He doted on each of those grandchildren. He invented a ridiculous name for each...Whippersnapper, Scamp, Scalawag, Chatterbox. And one the grandkids eventually came up with a ridiculous name for him which was soon adopted by all the others.
So he was thrilled when, in1986, one of his daughters invited the whole clan to gather for a three day family reunion at Thanksgiving at her home in Tennessee. There was great food. There were family stories. The whole bunch crowded into the Grand Old Opry to hear Little Jimmy Dickens and Sarah Cannon (Minnie Pearl). There were more stories and food and songs, and then pallets on the floor for the children. Charles took about half the bunch with him to a big craft/antique fair. He came away with more woodworking materials. Then back to Carol’s house for more laughing and joking and stories and food.
And on that last day, as everyone was ready to drive off toward their separate cities and towns and states, someone said: “We ought to take some pictures!” So some were dragged back inside to pose. There were pictures made of just about every combination of grandparents, parents, and children imaginable.
He hated to leave, but he had something up his sleeve. He was glad to get back to his special projects.
You see he had decided to use his woodworking shop to build a wooden treasure for each of the children. Sleds for the boys - some were Yankees and could use them - and doll cradles for the girls - just right for the Cabbage Patch dolls every child had in 1986.
Monday and Tuesday, December first and second he spent a good bit of time gathering materials. Making drawings and templates. By Wednesday afternoon, December third, his basement shop was strewn with maple and oak and pine pieces. There were cardboard templates of cradle rockers and sled runners. There were some pieces already cut and ready for sanding. Others were marked for cutting. He had been there for a bit that morning I imagine. His jacket was hanging on a nail by the back door with his carpenters pencil and rule in the pocket.
But Charles wasn’t there Wednesday afternoon.
He had gone out to bring in some firewood that morning. Collapsed into a chair. The EMTs worked to revive him as they sped to the hospital but it was to no avail.
So that afternoon his oldest son walked around the house, trying to find a way to cope with overwhelming grief. Then the son opened the door to the basement. The scent of recently cut pine and oak wafted up the stairs. He walked down them into the basement workshop. He could smell, in that jacket by the door, his Dad’s Old Spice and sweat. He could see his Dad in the care and love invested in patterns and pieces of wood. And suddenly he knew how to use his grief. His father had left therapy all around that basement.
He called his brother. “You take the sleds. I’ll handle the cradles.” For three weeks they were their father’s hands on earth. For three weeks they cut and shaped and sanded and stained and polished. There have never been sleds or cradles more saturated with love.
And on Christmas morning 10 children found under their Christmas trees beautiful final gifts from their loving Grandshaw -- that was their silly name for him.
But my brother and I had received a gift even more precious. More precious than that Daisy Air Rifle in ‘58 or the three-speed bicycle in ‘60.
At the very moment I ached for a way to help my daddy, our father fairly shouted from the scent of pine, the shape of patterns, the texture of oak, “Get busy son. I need you. You’ve got work to do.”
That job my Daddy left for me to do is a bittersweet memory and my favorite Christmas gift.
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