Christmas Socks

So this is Christmas: shopping and celebrations and trees and lights and presents. Presents. The game at Christmas. Finding THE perfect gift for each person on your list. It’s tough.

Know what’s tougher? Thinking up a gift to give to your father.

Your dying father. My Daddy.

What can I give him that would even amount to anything? That would bring him joy as the receiver? That would bring me joy as the giver? The best I know to do is give him words- words of what he’s given to me. So I’ve strung a few together for him to unwrap and I certainly hope they are the right size and color and fit and make him as happy as a six pack and a Mexican meal and my Mama do.

My dad gave me his bladder that is somewhere between the size of a squirrel’s and hummingbird’s. It’s in our genes, y’all. As a little big-banged, big-front toothed-girl, I had begged my Daddy to take me to work with him one day. It was the summer and he liked a riding buddy (I think) as he went to appraise houses. I liked the promise of a YooHoo and some cellophane pack of colored sugar and the ride with just me and my dad in his pickup. Countryside on either side, we rode to his destination, singing Annie Lennox’s “Sweet Dreams,” Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy,” and sipping our drinks. When we got where we were going, Dad got out and I got out and we used his long tape measure to wind around outside of the house. Once completed, he told me to go back and wait in the truck while he finished up with the homeowner. While waiting, I discovered that the YooHoo I consumed was saying YooNeedALoo to my bladder. I couldn’t get out because Dad was inside and there was no tree that looked welcoming and I was obedient (heh heh-my brother just choked reading that) to his command to stay in the truck. I waited, shaking my legs back and forth so hard that the Ford Ranger was swaying and I was sweating and praying that the feeling would pass. It didn’t. So, being the precocious child I was, I scooted over to my dad’s seat and well, threw a YooHoo coup. It was about that time that he showed up, notebook in hand, pen in pocket, ready to head back home. So I grinned my big front teeth and peered under my homemade haircut and played dumb as he proceeded to sit in his seat. It was more of a squish than a sit. Bless his soul, he didn’t even yell. He got up, tried his best to absorb what he could with some Krystals napkins or something that we could scrounge, and he sat back down and rode home just like that. Wet britches for the whole ride on his side, wet britches for the whole ride for me. He didn’t even fuss at me, and I don’t know how for the life of Adult Parent Me he didn’t. But my Dad gave me a lesson that day. He could have made me feel bad, but he chose not to. He showed me that love is gas station snacks, long drives, and time together-even when your khakis are sopping up someone else’s pee. That’s love-and it smells like teetee sometimes.

Dad gave me a sense of humor and a quick wit. He taught me to never judge a man by the type of beer he offers, but the temperature of it. He taught me how to interact with strangers- hold the door, offer a pleasantry, help when I could–except that one time at Disney World. We were waiting in line for some attraction and we had to get 3D glasses to enhance that experience from this great big bin. Somehow my dad and I got separated from the rest of our group, but we remained in line like good Disney folks do. Except for one man with a Nikon around his neck who didn’t speak English and was half the size of Dad jumped in front of us and took the last two 3D glasses that would have been rightly ours. Now, if you know my Dad, you know he doesn’t mince words nor censor them for any age or gender. He looked right at the fella and said, “Well just take it, bastard!”and the man grinned at him like he understood English but only the “just take it” part. I knew from Dad’s tone that the other fella misunderstood with his grin he was giving us, but I wasn’t really sure what a bastard was at that age. As soon as we ran back into our group, I proceeded to repeat what my Dad said to my Mom because that is what I do and asked her what a bastard was. Let’s just say that for the rest of the Disney trip, the crew we were with used the phrase, “Take it, bastard” or “T.I.B.” liberally, except that we kids weren’t allowed to repeat it. This was the one and only time we went and were going to go with that man and he made no bones about it to us kids. Disney World may be the happiest place on earth, but not to my Daddy. It was a form of torture to him. Not only did he scoff at the price of the food, but also at the souvenirs. He told us he’d give me and my brother $20 cash to spend at the gas station on the way home instead of on some piece of junk in the gift shop. We took him up on it. Pulling out of the Mickey Mouse Lot, Dad announced, “Kids, that’s the last time we will go to Disney World. I’m good. ” To which my mom replied, “But what about when we have grandkids?!?!” He promptly responded, “I’m not going.” And he meant it. When Dad says something, the man means it.

Every year at Christmas there were a few traditions held at the O’Brien family household. One of which included multiple plays of the Robert Earl Keen ballad, “Merry Christmas from the Family,” loud and with vocal accompaniment by John Earl O’Brien, off key but sounding like angels in labor. The night of Christmas Eve would always begin with dinner at Mema and Big Jack’s of Stouffer’s Lasagna (I acquiesced her cooking skills), followed by presents, and then a party at Aunt Amy’s, where every adult there would ask, “are you ready for Santa?” and some of those would ask in cursive that would need a Boozetta Stone to decipher. (It was a fun party–even more fun when I was of age.) Of course Santa would come that night because, duh, have you even met me or my brother?-and we would be bright eyed and bushytailed and prepared to awaken the rooster on Christmas morning. This was not my parents’ favorite thing and I get it now that I’m one. Kids are fannies. Lovable, but true nonetheless. After we begged no less than 20 times for 15 minute intervals (that was the answer we’d get–“give us 15 more minutes!!!”), the parentals decided we could get up to see the loot, but we had to wait. While Mom would go to the kitchen to put film in the camera, Dad would make the bed, clip his toenails, reorganize his dresser, plunge the toilet, grab a couple of chapters of War and Peace and then decide he was ready to darken his bedroom doorway. When he did, he would notice his two offspring weren’t wearing socks. Y’all, if you’ve ever experienced a South Georgia Christmas, you know that it’s rarely cold enough for pants, let alone socks. But, socks were a requirement to get to see what Santa left for us good little girl and boy. So we would go grab up socks and put them on faster than an ice cube melts in hell and I swear he would smirk like the Grinch at the beginning of the story. After we had enjoyed unwrapping our presents and scratching off Lottery Tickets (yep-we had THE BEST Christmases) from our stockings and just happy happy happy, he looked more like the Grinch at the end of the story, but with socks on. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a prettier picture.

This year will look different. I won’t hear him singing our beloved ballad, because stupid cancer has robbed his voice. He won’t have the lottery tickets paper clipped together for us too old for stockings, with a pocket with just enough coins for us to use as scratchers. I won’t see him sitting in his chair, taking his sweet time opening every single gift. And even though there will be just as much love as there always has been, it just won’t be the same…

but I will be wearing my socks, and I bet my brother will too. And I might just make my own kids do it, while I’m singing,

“Hallelujah everybody say ‘cheese,’ Merry Christmas from the fam-uuuu-leeeee! Feliz Navidad!”