The Christmas Gift

I went to see Ducky the other day to borrow his .22 rifle cleaning kit and, the weather being unseasonably warm, found him lounging by his little backyard pool. I’ve never actually seen him in the pool, but it does serve in his exercise regimen. His reclining lawn chair is on one side and he keeps his drink cooler on the opposite side, so every time he wants another can, he has to get up and walk there and back. 

Whatever works. 

He was busy writing on a notepad and seemed seriously studious with the task at hand. He looked up, saw me and said, “I’ve just finished my letter to Santa.”

Now, a lesser acquaintance might have been surprised that a 70-something-year-old man would be writing a letter to Santa Claus, but I’ve known Ducky forever, and this is an eccentric, annual event. I would have been surprised if he were writing something mundane, like a grocery list or a roster of politicians he would like to do away with. 

I took a seat, and he handed it to me with a “Whatcha think?” His introduction was longer than usual before it got to the inventory of possible gifts. I read it out loud.

“Dear Santa, I may or may not have been good this year, according to whom you ask. I understand that you keep records of such things and dole out presents accordingly. If you could find it in your heart to scratch out that little incident with the nine iron and the car windshield, I might stand a pretty good chance this year. I had no idea I could still throw anything that far. Oh yeah, and if you could ignore those names directed toward that game warden. I would appreciate it. I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear me anyway or I’d be in jail.”

I took a sip of the drink Ducky offered me and continued. “Number One: A couple of boxes of .30-.30 hollow points. Number Two: A spool of 8-lb. test Number Three: a pack of 6-inch chartreuse swim-tail worms. Number Four: box of peanut brittle.” 

I raised my eyebrows and looked at him. “Peanut brittle, Ducky?” He replied matter-of-factly, “New teeth” and grinned to show them off. 

I continued reading. “Number Five: My own personal gun store clerk.” 

I paused and said, “Whaaaat?” 

He explained. “I will train this person to never, ever lay a receipt in my hand and then cover it with bills and silver while I am holding a bag of shotgun shells in the other hand and cannot possibly extricate the money in order to throw the receipt away. I do not need a receipt. I can look at the cash register to see that I paid way too much and do not need a reminder to take home with me. This all started when some feeble-minded idiot, who had nothing better to do than read merchandise receipts when he got home discovered one day that he couldn’t find it and complained to the management. I mean, why do you need a receipt at a firearms shop? You gonna bring back a paper target with holes everywhere but the bull’s eye, complain the target was defective and demand your money back? C’mon.”

Ducky continued, “Anyway, the management starts putting up signs by the register that say, “We will give you a free Caribbean Cruise if we fail to provide you with a receipt,” and you can bet your big ol’ butt that cashier is going to jam that little paper into your hand because he cannot afford to pay for a Caribbean Cruise. And I mean, if I were to find a dollar discrepancy on that receipt, do you think I’m going to spend $3 on gas to take it back? Mama Jones didn’t raise no fool. I want my own personal gun store clerk for Christmas.”

“I see your point, Duck. Number Six: A New Lucky Number.” 

I paused again. He took that as a request for another explanation.

“Well, you know my old lucky number was four and a half. It worked pretty good for most of my life, but I realized this year that I had not caught a limit of bluegills all season, so it is time for a new one.” 

Not even wanting to broach  the subject of how he came up with four and a half to begin with, I tried to explain that his lack of a limit had nothing to do with luck, numerical or otherwise. I told him he was holding his mouth wrong.

He asked, incredulously, “How am I supposed to hold my mouth?” 

I put my lower lip under my upper lip, cocked my lower jaw to one side, stuck my tongue out of the corner of my mouth and said, “Ike ith.”

He just stared at me for a moment. Then he said, “I hope my new lucky number is nine.” 

I continued reading. “Number Seven: A Tattoo Parlor Gift Certificate. You want to get a tattoo?” 

“Oh, no,” he replied. “It’s not for me. It’s for my wife.” 

“Your wife wants a tattoo?”

He thought for a moment and said, “Probably not. But I thought it would be a good idea for her to get the word “Patience” permanently inked on her forehead so that when she tells me I can’t go fishing because I have to cut the lawn or I can’t go hunting because I have to wash her car, I will look at her and be reminded of that most-virtuous of virtues and not say something stupid.”

I let that sink in a moment and said, “I think you just did…

“Number Eight. A multi-language dictionary specializing in synonyms.” 

I waited for an explanation without asking. and Ducky said, “It’s for the bank, the IRS, the credit card companies… you know. I have broken it down as simply as I can. I write ‘no money’ on the bills and they still don’t seem to understand. Maybe a new dictionary will help.” 

“Maybe,” I proffered.

“Number Nine: 52 pair of reading glasses.”  

Ducky said, “That’s so I can lose one pair a week and still be set for the year. And in case my wife won’t get the ‘patience’ tattoo, I won’t have to ask her if she knows where they are.” 

“Good thinking, Ducky.”

“Number 10: Santa, in case I don’t qualify for any of the above, maybe you could just grant us one gift. How about a little peace on earth, good will towards men?”

Amen to that, Ducky. Amen.

For a copy of Garry’s new book, “Dixie Days,” reminiscences of a Southern boyhood, go to Amazon.com and enter title and author. Soft cover $12.