There are so many intricate details and facets of life that as children, we simply don’t grasp. They’re just part of the tiny little bubble we call our world. It’s not until decades later, that a fleeting glimpse into a childhood memory reveals the deeper meaning. I’m fortunate to have clear and detailed images in my mind of childhood days long gone by. These memories trigger thoughts and “aha” moments each time one surfaces into my conscious mind.

I recall each year there was a night in mid-December when my father would remove everything from the dining room table and meticulously wipe it with a damp dishcloth and then dry it with a clean dish towel. This was the beginning of his ritual for as long as I can remember. Next, out would come rolls of bright wrapping paper, tape, bows and ribbon; he was about to embark on the year’s gift wrapping. As a child, it was exciting. It signaled that Christmas was just around the corner and being both spoiled and fortunate, all of my holiday wishes were about to come true.

What didn’t really make sense to me was why it always seemed to take my father an entire night to accomplish the task. He would be wrapping and adorning boxes until late into the night, long after I had toddled off to bed. But I always knew that the work he invested that night would generate the most fabulous packages ever. They looked as if they belonged under a thirty foot Christmas tree on a television show or perhaps in one of the magical store windows downtown. They were works of art, and yet they were also much more. Now I understand that they were works of love.

As a child and a young man, my father had very little. His family barely made ends meet on a daily basis and there was never much left for gifts at Christmas. When he was older, his elder aunts and uncles did all they could to see that dad and his brother Wally had at least one or two packages to open on Christmas morning. To them, two gifts each meant more than piles of presents mean to most youngsters.

As I sit here and close my eyes, I can picture my father painstakingly cutting and folding and taping. The Christmas tree was lit and looking magnificent as ever and Bing Crosby was belting out White Christmas and Christmas in Killarney on the old console record player. I see the determination on his face as he works until every package is perfect. And now I also feel the love that filled that room and the entire house as he worked to create the perfect gifts for the ones he loved most. This was just another example of all he did to make sure his family had a wonderful holiday and that his children created memories of yet another magical family Christmas. Every detail had to be perfect, every bow on a box and every light on the tree was placed with loving care simply to see the smiles on our faces.

I know now that some years were financially tougher than others but as a child I never had any idea of those struggles. Yes, the holidays were about presents as with any child. But my father made sure that deep in my child’s mind, I knew that the holiday season was about so much more, as well.  Being with family, sharing the warmth and love that only a family can provide, that was a gift from my father’s heart to mine. A gift I carry with me to this day and a gift I cherish more with each passing year.

My Christmas wish this year is simply to have many more family Christmases to share with the ones that I love most. We will laugh and share and create more memories in honor of my father and his gift. And someday my sons will tell their child this story of how Great Grandpa made Christmas perfect each year for his family, and the tradition will continue.