The Ultimate Gift
We are repeatedly told growing up that the price of a gift isn't important, it's the thought that counts. But that can be hard to believe when Daddy gushes over an expensive new toy, but ignores a primitive token of love painstakingly created with tiny hands and huge hearts that care far more deeply about him than the hands that assembled that expensive new bike or CD player.
Which leads me to the daunting question I had to face that Christmas, the Christmas that my children were given money to buy presents at a school "Mistletoe Mall."
Mistletoe Mall is a kindergarten through sixth grade holiday emporium of "unique" items (what retail stores wouldn't carry if you paid them). However, all the gifts are designed for a child's budget, and they love it.
They had bought me presents and were trying very hard to keep from telling me what I was to receiveespecially my son. He would tease me with my gift, which lay "creatively" wrapped under the tree. But not a day went by that he didn't make me guess what it might be.
On Christmas morning, very early, it was thrust at me first thing by my excited and impatient son, who insisted I open his first. He was giddy with excitement and sure I would never receive a gift of this caliber again. I excitedly
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opened the package and looked inside. There it was, truly the most beautiful present I had ever received. But I was no longer looking at it through 35-year-old eyes, jaded by promises of "newest technology" and "faster, easier and more economical." Instead, I once again looked at it through excited five-year-old eyes.
It was a several-inch long, green plastic dinosaur of the Tyrannosaurus Rex variety. But my son quickly pointed out its best feature. Its front claws were also clips so you couldyou guessed itwear it all the time.
I will never forget his eyes as I looked at him that Christmas morning. They were filled with expectation, hopefulness and lovethe kind found only in very young eyes.
History was repeating itself. That small, blond-haired blue-eyed face was asking me the same question I had asked years before. Is it really the thought that counts? I thought of how he must have agonized at the Mistletoe Mall to find a jewel among all the paraphernalia that would best communicate his feelings of love to his daddy.
I answered his question the only way a five-year-old would understand. I immediately put it on and raved how "cool" it was and confirmed that, yes, he was right. I did love it. For the next several weeks I went literally everywhere with a plastic dinosaur clipped to my lapel. Strangely, no one seemed to notice, especially when I was in the presence of my son. No one, that is, except him.
It has occurred to me that the expression on the face of young children giving gifts of the heart, especially at Christmas, is dramatically different from that of adults trying to buy love with expensive CDs or jewelry.
Last Christmas, two children from our neighborhood presented our children with handmade paper Christmas stockings, weighted down with treasures and held together by thousands of staples.
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Inside were odd pieces of Christmas candy, favorite toys of old and once-loved figurines. The children were from a broken home and didn't have much money, but you could tell from their beaming faces that extra helpings of love and thought had been stapled into those childlike versions of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
When does the thought stop counting? It is a question I have asked myself time and time again. I guess it stops counting the moment the rewards for the most precious acts we perform for each other are reduced to their strictly commercial value.
The dollar amount of my son's presents wouldn't amount to pennies, but they are worth their weight in gold to me.
So the next time you see someone wearing a crude paper tie or a "cool" five-cent (rub-on) caterpillar tattoo that doesn't quite fit the mold of respectable adult fashion, don't bother feeling sorry for him. If you tell him he looks stupid, he'll just smile and say, "Maybe, but I've got a five-year-old son who thinks I'm the best thing since peanut butter, and there isn't enough money in the U.S. Treasury to make me take it off."
That's why I wear a plastic dinosaur.
Dan Schaeffer
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The Coolest Dad in the Universe
He was 50 years old when I was born, and a ''Mr. Mom" long before anyone had a name for it. I didn't know why he was home instead of Mom, but I was young and the only one of my friends who had their dad around. I considered myself very lucky.
Dad did so many things for me during my grade school years. He convinced the school bus driver to pick me up at my house instead of the usual bus stop that was six blocks away. He always had my lunch ready for me when I came homeusually a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that was shaped for the season. My favorite was at Christmas. The sandwiches would be sprinkled with green sugar and cut in the shape of a tree.
As I got a little older and tried to gain my independence, I wanted to move away from those "childish" signs of his love. But he wasn't going to give up. In high school and no longer able to go home for lunch, I began taking my own. Dad would get up a little early and make it for me. I never knew what to expect. The outside of the sack might be covered with his rendering of a mountain scene (it became his trademark) or a heart inscribed with "Dad-n-Angie K.K." in its center. Inside there would be a napkin with that same heart or an "I love you." Many times he would write a joke or a riddle, such as "Why don't they ever call
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it a momsicle instead of a popsicle?" He always had some silly saying to make me smile and let me know that he loved me.
I used to hide my lunch so no one would see the bag or read the napkin, but that didn't last long. One of my friends saw the napkin one day, grabbed it, and passed it around the lunch room. My face burned with embarrassment. To my astonishment, the next day all my friends were waiting to see the napkin. From the way they acted, I think they all wished they had someone who showed them that kind of love. I was so proud to have him as my father. Throughout the rest of my high school years, I received those napkins, and still have a majority of them.
And still it didn't end. When I left home for college (the last one to leave), I thought the messages would stop. But my friends and I were glad that his gestures continued.
I missed seeing my dad every day after school and so I called him a lot. My phone bills got to be pretty high. It didn't matter what we said; I just wanted to hear his voice. We started a ritual during that first year that stayed with us. After I said good-bye he always said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?" I'd reply.
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
I began getting letters almost every Friday. The front-desk staff always knew who the letters were fromthe return address said "The Hunk." Many times the envelopes were addressed in crayon, and along with the enclosed letters were usually drawings of our cat and dog, stick figures of him and Mom, and if I had been home the weekend before, of me racing around town with friends and using the house as a pit stop. He also had his mountain scene and the heart-encased inscription, Dad-n-Angle K.K.
The mail was delivered every day right before lunch, so I'd have his letters with me when I went to the cafeteria. I
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realized it was useless to hide them because my roommate was a high school friend who knew about his napkins. Soon it became a Friday afternoon ritual. I would read the letters, and the drawing and envelope would be passed around.
It was during this time that Dad became stricken with cancer. When the letters didn't come on Friday, I knew that he had been sick and wasn't able to write. He used to get up at 4:00 A.M. so he could sit in the quiet house and do his letters. If he missed his Friday delivery, the letters would usually come a day or two later. But they always came. My friends used to call him "Coolest Dad in the Universe." And one day they sent him a card bestowing that title, signed by all of them. I believe he taught all of us about a father's love. I wouldn't be surprised if my friends sta
rted sending napkins to their children. He left an impression that would stay with them and inspire them to give their own children their expression of their love.
Throughout my four years of college, the letters and phone calls came at regular intervals. But then the time came when I decided to come home and be with him because he was growing sicker, and I knew that our time together was limited. Those were the hardest days to go through. To watch this man, who always acted so young, age past his years. In the end he didn't recognize who I was and would call me the name of a relative he hadn't seen in many years. Even though I knew it was due to his illness, it still hurt that he couldn't remember my name.
I was alone with him in his hospital room a couple of days before he died. We held hands and watched TV. As I was getting ready to leave, he said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
Angie K. Ward-Kucer
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Workin' Man
I was never one to eavesdrop when someone was having
a chat.
But late one night as I came through our yard, I found I
was doing just that.
My wife was talking to our youngest son as he sat on the
kitchen floor,
So I stopped quietly to listen just outside the back
screen door.
Seems she'd heard some kids all bragging about their
daddy's jobs.
How they all were big executives . . . and then they
asked our Bob,
"What fine career does your father have?" their queries
all began.
Bob mumbled low as he looked away, "He's just a
workin' man."
My good wife waited 'til they all had just left, then called
our young boy in.
She said, "I have something to tell you, Son," as she
kissed his dimpled chin.
"You said your dad's just a workin' man, and what you
said was true.
But I doubt if you know what that really means, so I'll
explain it to you."
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"In all the sprawling industries that make our country
great.
In all the shops and stores and trucks that daily haul our
freight . . .
Whenever you see a new house built, remember this,
my son.
It took the common workin' man to get that big job done!"
"It's trueexecutives have nice desks and stay real clean
all day.
They plan big projects to achieve . . . send memos to relay.
But to turn their dreams into fact, remember this, my son.
It takes the common workin' man to get those big jobs
done!"
"If all the bosses left their desks and knocked off for a year.
The wheels of industry still could turnrunning in high
gear.
If men like your dad aren't on the job, that industry can't
run.
It takes the common workin' man to get the big jobs done!"
Well I choked back a tear and cleared my throat as I
entered through the door.
My young son's eyes lit up for joy as he jumped up off the
floor.
He gave me a hug as he said, "Hey, Dad, I'm so proud to
be your son . . .
'Cause you're one of the menthe special menwho get
the big jobs done."
Ed Peterman
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It's How You Play the Game That Counts
Donald Jenson was struck in the head by a thrown bat while umpiring a Little League game in Terre Haute, Indiana. He continued to work the game, but later that evening was placed in a hospital by a doctor. While being kept overnight for observation, Jenson wrote the following letter:
Dear Parent of a Little Leaguer:
I am an umpire. I don't do it for a living, but on Saturdays and Sundays for fun.
I've played the game, coached it and watched it. But somehow, nothing takes the place of umpiring. Maybe it's because I feel that deep down I'm providing a fair chance for all the kids to play the game without disagreements and arguments.
With all the fun I've had, there is still something that bothers me about my job. . . . Some of you folks don't understand why I'm there. Some of you think I'm there to exert authority over your son or daughter. For that reason, you often yell at me when I make a mistake, or encourage your son or daughter to say things that hurt my feelings.
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How many of you really understand that I try to be perfect? I try not to make a mistake. I don't want your child to feel that he got a bad deal from an umpire.
Yet no matter how hard I try, I can't be perfect. I counted the number of calls I made in a six-inning game today. The total number of decisions, whether on balls and strikes or safes and outs, was 146.
I tried my best to get them all right, but I'm sure I missed some. When I figured out my percentage on paper, I could have missed eight calls today and still got about 95 percent of the calls right. . . . In most occupations that percentage would be considered excellent. If I were in school, that grade would receive an "A" for sure.
But your demands are higher than that. Let me tell you more about my game today.
There was one real close call that ended the game . . . a runner for the home team was trying to steal the plate on a passed ball. The catcher chased the ball down and threw to the pitcher covering the plate. The pitcher made the tag, and I called the runner out.
As I was getting my equipment to leave, I overheard one of the parents' comments: "It's too bad the kids have to lose because of rotten umpires. That was one of the lousiest calls I've ever seen."
Later at the concession stand, a couple of kids were telling their friends, "Boy, the umpires were lousy today. They lost the game for us."
The purpose of Little League is to teach baseball skills to young people. Obviously, a team that does not play well in a given game, yet is given the opportunity to blame that loss on an umpire for one call or two, is being given the chance to take all responsibility for the loss from its shoulders.
A parent or adult leader who permits the younger player to blame his or her failures on an umpire,
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regardless of the quality of that umpire, is doing the worst kind of injustice to that youngster. . . . Rather than learning responsibility, such an attitude is fostering an improper outlook toward the ideals of the game itself. The irresponsibility is bound to carry over to future years.
As I sit here writing this letter, I am no longer as upset as I was this afternoon. I wanted to quit umpiring. But fortunately, my wife reminded me of another situation that occurred last week.
I was behind the plate, umpiring for a pitcher who pantomimed his displeasure at any call on a borderline pitch that was not in his team's favor. One could sense that he wanted the crowd to realize that he was a fine, talented player who was doing his best to get along, and that I was a black-hearted villain who was working against him.
The kid continued in this vein for two innings . . . while at the same time yelling at his own players who dared to make a mistake. For two innings, the manager watched this. When the kid returned to the dugout to bat in the top of the third, the manager called him aside.
In a loud enough voice that I was able to overhear, the lecture went like this: "Listen, Son, it's time you made a decision. You can be an umpire, or an actor, or a pitcher. But you can only be one at a time when you're playing for me. Right now it is your job to pitch, and you are basically doing a lousy job. Leave the acting to the actors, the umpiring to the umpires, or you won't do any pitching here. Now what is it going to be?"