TSB Editor Steve Kirk shares a vivid holiday memory as part of our seasonal series.
The best Christmas present I ever received whimpered away in our living room early in the morning.
No kidding, as my 8-year-old self tried desperately to sleep the final few hours of Christmas morning away, dying to peek into the hallway and get a taste, feel, sense, anything, for the remnants of what Santa Claus had left. I felt sure he’d already been there. My nightstand clock read 5 a.m.
It was acceptable to rise early on Christmas morning, but at 5 a.m.? Probably not. I’d have to wait a couple hours for the traditional turn to the left and burst through my Charlie’s room. After waking my older brother up, I’d proceed to burst through my parents room and rouse the entire household into a festive spirit of gift opening.
But first came the wait.
And the cries.
Lordy, a present was crying, I swear. I heard it.
Presents don’t …. cry, do they? Well, yes, actually, in that late-70s Christmas on Valley Park Drive, presents did cry. After a couple hour wait, I got my first dog that morning. A baby Dachsund (that’s weener-dog to you and me) whom we named Sassy. She waited on her new family to “open” her while contained in a box with blankets and treats and encouraging all of us to make it an early Christmas morning and .. get to it?
Get to it, I did. A dog. Finally. And to Santa Claus, who in his infinite wisdom decided that year that I was responsible enough to handle such a little “sister” without harm, I say thank you. Still. I’ll never forget it. And to my parents, who might have had a conversation or some pull with the Big Guy, well, here’s a thanks to you to — years after the fact.