Aunt Julia's Gifts

Aunt Julia’s Gifts

Noel Laflin

12-4-17

We shook every package each time we spied the tree.

 

‘Will the day never get here?’ we asked one another repeatedly.

And then Christmas Eve would arrive, and one – and only one gift could be opened that night. The rest, along with whatever Santa might deliver had to wait until morning.

I always went for Aunt Julia’s present first.

From far away Minnesota came the likes of wonderful toys each year: a windup, cymbal-clanging monkey; a child-sized hurdy-gurdy cranking out tinny tunes; a new teddy bear …

As the years went by, and we entered our teens, Aunt Julia’s gifts kept coming.

But the presents arriving during the late 1960’s were still meant for children of an age now passed: kids books; brightly colored Christmas socks that could only fit an eight-year-old; stuffed animals …

We had not aged in her eyes.

Her gifts were tested by a touch, and when it was apparent that another pair of squishy-feeling Christmas socks had been sent, her tokens of love were pushed to the back of the tree and opened last.

Begrudgingly, at the urging of parents, I sent the required thank you card nonetheless.

While on a summer trip to visit grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins – back in 1970, Aunt Julia died.  I was seventeen.

I remember having a twinge of guilt as my cousins and I helped carry her casket from the church to the graveyard, wishing I had written more sincere thank you cards.

And I’d give a lot nowadays to wind up a long lost clanging monkey and listen to him crazily bang those cymbals together just once more.