Merry Christmas Eve
The year was 1981. I was seven, and mesmerized by our
neighbor: a crotchety man, I will call him Mr. Crotchet, who tirelessly ranted
about everything and everyone. I found him fascinating.
Sometimes I sat on my bike in his driveway, listening while
he puttered and muttered in his garage.
Sometimes I would inch closer and start handing him tools
while he worked on his motorcycle and raged against the world. He taught me
sophisticated insults: insipid, fatuous, obtuse, and more. I never heard an
adult so articulately voice anger on a consistent level. I honestly did not
think he noticed who handed him tools, or that a seven-year-old intently
listened to his diatribes on the current state of affairs.
One day he uncharacteristically asked me a question: when
were we getting a Christmas tree?
The night before, my dad explained there was no money for a
tree. His shoulders slumped as he said he hoped I was not disappointed. I only
wanted my parents not to worry, I did not care about a tree.
I explained all this to Mr. Crotchet, and shrugged my
shoulders to indicate that a stupid tree was not important. He asked if we had
enough to eat, and inquired about my baby brother. We were fine, I said, and
then took off on my bike after wishing him a Merry Christmas.
The next day I came home from school to find the biggest,
fullest, beautiful fir tree leaning up against our house next to a box filled
with jars of baby food and a frozen turkey. The electric bill was due that day,
and when my mother called the power company to explain why we were not able to
pay on time that month, the receptionist said someone paid our bill the day
before.
I told Mom it was Mr. Crotchet. She doubted it, but piled a
clean styrofoam meat tray with cookies, wrapped it with Saran Wrap and stuck a
bow on top. We marched across the street with the tray full of cookies topped
with a bow and knocked on his door.
As we thanked him, Mr. Crotchet claimed he didn’t know what
we were talking about and rushed to firmly shut the door in our faces.
Mom bent down to set the cookies on his stoop and met me at
eye level. “Clearly, it wasn’t him,” she said with a look that made it clear
this was a secret we would let him keep.
His gift was not the tree, the turkey, the baby food, or
even the paid bill.
The gift he gave us was kindness.
Being kind is not the same as being nice. Niceties are
shallow, and disappear quickly, like snowflakes melting on a fingertip.
Kindness leaves a lasting impression, an indented fingerprint on our souls of
clay.
