The Baseball Mitt - a Christmas Story
When my wife announced our 3-year-old twin grandsons, Conor and Charles, were spending Thanksgiving with us, I suggested we put up the Christmas tree before they arrived. We wanted to see their reaction to the miracle of the 9-foot, well-lit tree.
When I say "miracle", I refer to the annual challenge of decorating the tree. Years ago I reluctantly gave in and bought an artificial tree. Since then our controversy has concerned whether to string lights in a circular fashion (my preference) or in a vertical arrangement (my bride's engineering background-influenced choice). This year I agreed to vertical and grudgingly admit the tree looks the best ever.
This was evident in the twin's faces when they first saw the tree. We saved a few non-breakable ornaments for them to hang, a task they eagerly embraced. Their parents stood by, glowing at the boys' reaction.
The cameras clicked and the strains of a Mannheim Steamroller carol echoed in the background, and I marveled at the magic children bring to Christmas. As I watched Conor and Charles, it dawned on me this would be my 70th Christmas. Wow! Stacked end to end, that would be about 500 feet of Christmas trees.
The trees and gifts are nice, but most important are the family memories accumulated during those 70 Christmases. My dad, mom and sister, with whom I shared the Christmases of my youth, passed long ago, and some of those memories have faded. But I do remember mom and dad got married around Christmastime, so it was a special time of year for them.
The comfort of mom's love was always there, but the memory of my dad is strongest for some reason. I remember him taking me to the outdoor City Market Square in Roanoke, VA, to shop for a tree. I can still smell the odor of fresh-cut cedar tress in the market square.
Dad, a factory worker who supported a family of five and bought a small house on $50 a week, firmly believed no tree was worth the $1 asking price and offered 50 cents.
Once we got the 75-cent tree (he loved to negotiate) home, the challenge of getting it to stand tall and level began. Dad would have no part of buying a tree stand. He built his own from scrap lumber. Most years he made it look easy, but this tree wouldn't cooperate. He exhausted his patience and, as he muttered something under his breath, he nailed that sucker to the living room floor!
By today's standards, our family was probably underprivileged and would be on food stamps, but fortunately we didn't know that. Christmas wasn't so much about toys and gifts as it was about being a part of a loving family. A memory of my 14th Christmas illustrates this.
My dad, who believed if you worked really hard everything would be all right, never understood my passion for baseball. That Christmas I wanted a first-baseman's mitt in the worst way, and Sears had one that felt right the first time I put it on in the store. I shyly showed it to my dad, but he said we couldn't afford a $4.50 mitt. I was disappointed, but understood money was tight.
Then, on Christmas morning, my mitt was under the tree! Baseball isn't exactly a Christmas Day sport, but I remember playing catch most of the day. I never really understood where the money came from to buy the mitt until later, when I overheard my folks talking about it. Dad had gone back to Sears, paid $1 down and 50 cents a week until the mitt was paid for.
Kids today, who wear $150 sneakers and drive their own cars to school, won't relate to this easily. But life was simpler then. The mitt was important to me, but a father's sacrificial love for his son, and his son's appreciation of the sacrifice in return, gave lasting meaning to the spirit of Christmas. The prices of gifts may have increased over the years, but the value of sacrificial love remains the same - priceless.
When my wife announced our 3-year-old twin grandsons, Conor and Charles, were spending Thanksgiving with us, I suggested we put up the Christmas tree before they arrived. We wanted to see their reaction to the miracle of the 9-foot, well-lit tree.
When I say "miracle", I refer to the annual challenge of decorating the tree. Years ago I reluctantly gave in and bought an artificial tree. Since then our controversy has concerned whether to string lights in a circular fashion (my preference) or in a vertical arrangement (my bride's engineering background-influenced choice). This year I agreed to vertical and grudgingly admit the tree looks the best ever.
This was evident in the twin's faces when they first saw the tree. We saved a few non-breakable ornaments for them to hang, a task they eagerly embraced. Their parents stood by, glowing at the boys' reaction.
The cameras clicked and the strains of a Mannheim Steamroller carol echoed in the background, and I marveled at the magic children bring to Christmas. As I watched Conor and Charles, it dawned on me this would be my 70th Christmas. Wow! Stacked end to end, that would be about 500 feet of Christmas trees.
The trees and gifts are nice, but most important are the family memories accumulated during those 70 Christmases. My dad, mom and sister, with whom I shared the Christmases of my youth, passed long ago, and some of those memories have faded. But I do remember mom and dad got married around Christmastime, so it was a special time of year for them.
The comfort of mom's love was always there, but the memory of my dad is strongest for some reason. I remember him taking me to the outdoor City Market Square in Roanoke, VA, to shop for a tree. I can still smell the odor of fresh-cut cedar tress in the market square.
Dad, a factory worker who supported a family of five and bought a small house on $50 a week, firmly believed no tree was worth the $1 asking price and offered 50 cents.
Once we got the 75-cent tree (he loved to negotiate) home, the challenge of getting it to stand tall and level began. Dad would have no part of buying a tree stand. He built his own from scrap lumber. Most years he made it look easy, but this tree wouldn't cooperate. He exhausted his patience and, as he muttered something under his breath, he nailed that sucker to the living room floor!
By today's standards, our family was probably underprivileged and would be on food stamps, but fortunately we didn't know that. Christmas wasn't so much about toys and gifts as it was about being a part of a loving family. A memory of my 14th Christmas illustrates this.
My dad, who believed if you worked really hard everything would be all right, never understood my passion for baseball. That Christmas I wanted a first-baseman's mitt in the worst way, and Sears had one that felt right the first time I put it on in the store. I shyly showed it to my dad, but he said we couldn't afford a $4.50 mitt. I was disappointed, but understood money was tight.
Then, on Christmas morning, my mitt was under the tree! Baseball isn't exactly a Christmas Day sport, but I remember playing catch most of the day. I never really understood where the money came from to buy the mitt until later, when I overheard my folks talking about it. Dad had gone back to Sears, paid $1 down and 50 cents a week until the mitt was paid for.
Kids today, who wear $150 sneakers and drive their own cars to school, won't relate to this easily. But life was simpler then. The mitt was important to me, but a father's sacrificial love for his son, and his son's appreciation of the sacrifice in return, gave lasting meaning to the spirit of Christmas. The prices of gifts may have increased over the years, but the value of sacrificial love remains the same - priceless.
posted by easynan | 1:12 PM
1 Comments:
Thank you for sharing this poignant memory so beautifully written!
Sara Singleton
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