What is it about Christmas that brings out such intense memories? As a kid, I'd always wanted to have a farm of my own when I grew up. I realized that dream and for me there's always something special about being in the barn and feeding the animals on Christmas Eve. One year my parents were up visiting on Christmas Eve. I was going back to their home for a family get together the next day.
Before I left home on Christmas morning, I went out to feed the livestock. When I opened the grain bin, inside was a smooth metal scoop with a red ribbon tied to the handle. The note with it proclaimed it was from the animals, but the strong bold printing was my dad's.
Dad grew up in California during the depression. He was the youngest of a large family and, as far as I can figure, they never had a tree or the stockings and presents we loved and took for granted during our growing-up years. He was a generous man, but wasn't that much into trimming the tree or gift buying, relying on us and our mom to buy gifts for him to give.
Mom told me the scoop was his idea and he did his own shopping.
Our dad is no longer with us, but we still use his scoop every day. And, as I stand in the barn on Christmas Eve this year, surrounded by the animals contentedly chomping hay, releasing the scents of green fields drenched in drowsy summer sun, I won't feel the early winter darkness or the sharp cold creeping in under the door -- I'll feel the rough calloused warmth of his big hand in mine and know he's still holding my hand watching over us. Thanks, Dad. Merry Christmas.
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