Ghosts of Christmas Presents.

As I grew into my teens, Christmas began to lose a bit of its wonder. I no longer believed in Santa, no longer awoke to what seemed to be a hundred gifts under the tree. No more troll dolls, Legos or Little Kiddles. Christmas in my teens found me the recipient of things like colored markers and cases of Dr Pepper. It was still a good day to awaken to. We’d laugh about the oranges in our stockings that no one ever ate, the cousins’ annual tube sock exchange the night before and our dog Yogi eating the holiday suckers and puking them up again. 

Once the presents were unwrapped, we had to go to Dad’s. We didn’t want to, but that was part of the deal. We’d have to crawl out of our pajamas, comb our hair and wait for him to come get us. He didn’t seem to thrilled about leaving his own Christmas morning either, but it was part of the deal, too.

We drove what seemed like forever to his home in Sandy. His pickup truck was cold and rattly. The freeway was deserted and icy. Not much was spoken. The AM radio crackled with the sounds of Charley Pride and Loretta Lynn.

When we got to his home on Tonya Drive, we walked up the shag-carpeted stairs of his split-level to find my step-siblings playing with their new toys and having a good time of it all.

Dad offered us a glass of egg nog which he always diluted with a splash of Sprite. I graciously accepted and took a seat on the couch. Mark, Dave and I just stared at each other. Under the tree were three unwrapped gifts. The year before, Dad and Raelene gave me a beanbag chair. It was avocado green with kelly green felt piping. Raelene knew it wouldn’t match the decor of my bicentennial bedroom and would throw me into an OCD fit so she kindly crocheted a red, white and blue cover for it.

This year, Dad pointed under the tree and told us to grab our gifts. We did—then took our turns unwrapping them. Mark was thrilled to find a brand new 20 gauge shotgun. He couldn’t wait to go out the the gun club and bag a flock of mallards and honkers with Dad and Grandpa. 

Dave opened his to find a toolbox filled with a chrome-coated array of screwdrivers and socket wrenches. Perfect! He couldn’t wait to go home and dismantle and reassemble everything in sight. 

I opened mine to find a leather-bound Book of Mormon. I flipped the pages and muttered a silent WTF. Dad, with a proud tear in his eye, told me I could take it to Deseret Book and have my name engraved on its cover. I politely smiled and thanked them both. I couldn’t wait to go home.