Hooray!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Well, here it is December 31 again with another year gone by so quickly that it seems just yesterday we were starting it. It's been a pretty significant year for the two of you what with Boo breaking the tooth fairy bank by losing seven teeth and Bubble starting pre-school already. It's hard to believe the changes that can occur in a 12-month span of time and I find that this particular day - New Year's Eve - always begs for recollection. For me, that means returning to the deepest, warmest, most comforting recesses of my memory to a time when I was your age and all of my closest friends convened at 3 Lakecrest for a celebratory evening that included a traditional rip-roaring battle of Up Jinks between the girls and boys, then the annual race around the house with sparklers at midnight followed by a bowl of Mamaw Mary's famous chili before heading to bed.

No New Year's Eve could ever be complete, however, without Granddaddy Schaefer's telling of a One-legged Dragon tale. Every year, as soon as Up Jinks was over and right before the countdown began to midnight, Granddaddy would take a napkin and wrap it like a diaper around the index finger of his right hand. Then, he'd fold his thumb and other fingers back into a fist, leaving only the covered digit pointing outward.

"All right, children," he always began. "I want to tell you a story about the One-Legged Dragon." And he'd move his finger across the table.......poor dragon......limping along with only one leg......and the story would begin. I've written to you about this before (See Sunday, December 30, 2012 - "The One-Legged Dragon."), but the other day, I ran across some information in one of Granddaddy's editorials that was news to me. It shed some light on the history of the dragon and I wanted to make sure you knew.

Enthusiasm Encountered In Its Pristine Form

(Sunday, March 6, 1994 - The Greenville News)

I love enthusiasm. In fact, if I can find an enthusiastic mortician I'm going to ask him to bury me, but on condition he won't get carried away by his enthusiasm and take me before I'm scheduled to go.

I hate sourpusses, the ones always rummaging around hunting something unpleasant and doomed shaped for a topic of conversation, who see no beauty in a magnificent red sunrise, but want to talk about the unwanted rain it portends, one who shuns laughter as though it is the mother of plagues.

The other morning, I saw enthusiasm in its pristine, crystal pure form. It bathed me with the soap of joy and injected high octane into my outlook.

This epiphany, of a sort, occurred at Blythe Elementary School. I was asked to read my story of the "One-Legged Dragon" to my granddaughter Chelsea's class. Through a misunderstanding, instead of a small classroom of 20 third graders, I found myself on the stage of the lunch room before 150 first, second and third graders sitting on the floor with their teachers. I nearly panicked. But then I realized that, after all, I am a grandfather and these were simply Chelsea and Natalie multiplied by 75. The thought calmed my fears.

As I looked down on their bright and expectant little faces I became inwardly pensive. Here I was an emerging octogenarian looking tomorrow squarely in the eye; the past, of which I am so fond, suddenly lost its relevance.

Here was enormous potential embarking on a voyage over the vast sea of knowledge. Before my very eyes were the future scientists, doctors, philosophers, theologians, lawyers, architects, builders and statesmen.

My optimism denied the presence of a single future criminal or failure sitting on that floor waiting to hear about the one-legged dragon.

The thrust of the story is that everybody is different and it is these differences that define who we are. Hooray was the dragon's name. He had one leg and 99 stubs where legs used to be. Every morning, Mrs. Dragon would help him put his 99 crutches in place and he would take his morning walk. Everybody would laugh and make fun of Hooray with all the crutches and just one good leg.

One day, the people learned how Hooray lost his 99 legs. He was crossing a vast ocean on his way to seek his fortune when he ran across a shipwreck with 99 children aboard. They were sure to drown. Hooray turned his back, told the children to grab a leg and he swam them to safety. But the children has held onto his legs so tightly he lost them for lack of circulation.

When the people heard this they cheered Hooray, for he was a hero.

Because it was Hooray's 675th birthday, we all sang Happy Birthday to him with such enthusiasm and gusto it caught the attention of Old St. Peter, even as he was checking credentials and consigning eternal fate to the multitude who had just been processed by the world's morticians.

What and experience!!

Of Ribbons, Paper and Tape

Dear Boo and Bubble,

My goodness, what a whirlwind since I last wrote you!!! Captain and I have literally been across the ocean and back - and when we returned tot Dulles Airport a week ago, we landed right down into the middle of the delightful chaos of Christmas. For the first few days, shopping was a challenge due to jet lag. The malls didn't seem to want to open at 4:00 AM and by the time they were in full swing, I was back to bed and sound asleep. Thank goodness I'm adjusted back to good old Eastern Standard time now and filled with the Christmas spirit, which has me reminiscing a bit.

Yesterday afternoon, I went into our room and starting wrapping some of your gifts. When I finished my frenetic flurry of cutting, folding, taping and ribbon-zipping, the bed lay covered with packages - the remnants of the activity strewn everywhere - and the sight of it all transported me back to a time when I was your age, to my old dining room which every year in December joyously morphed into wrapping headquarters for 3 Lakecrest Drive. I've written about Christmas at 3 Lakecrest before (See December 2012 - "It's All Sugar" and "Cha-Ching - a Christmas Story), but I've never fully explained the details that make its memories so absolutely delectable....all magically orchestrated by your great grandmother Mary. Oh, how I wish you could have known her in this earthly existence.

For Mamaw Mary, Christmas was a 365-day-a-year project. It started as soon as December 26 when she would hit the stores in search of bargains on wrapping paper, ribbons, bows, tags, cards, tape and any other holiday paraphernalia that might be slashed for sale. She had a special spot in the attic where these things would keep until the appropriate time. All during the year, she bought small odds and ends figuring that she would match them up with a deserving person later on. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, her special stash included all of these things plus several Whitman Samplers and LifeSaver cartons (the Butterscotch was always my favorite) - it was a treasure trove of unassigned gifts for bag boys at the grocery store or car mechanics who worked on her car or attendants who filled up her gas tank or just in case somebody showed up unexpectedly at the door and she didn't want them to think they weren't on her list. (It was actually amazing how often this last situation occurred and she would say "Wait just a minute, I have something for you, too!" and would run to the dining room where these odd pieces were already wrapped with a tag that only needed to be filled out.)

By the first week of December, the dining room was completely converted to the purpose of wrapping gifts. I will never forget how she and I spent hours hunched over the table working on first one box then another. My first job was to tear the Scotch tape into small pieces and stick them in a row on the table so that they would be ready when she needed them. Next, I threaded the tags with their little strings and tied knots so that when she finished a package, she could identify whose it was. I then graduated to measuring the gift on the paper and cutting an appropriate size. When I mastered the art of folding the paper and taping it, Mamaw taught me how to secure ribbon around the box and fasten it, leaving enough length to tie down a bow which she had deftly crafted. The pièce de résistance came when she showed me how to zip the ribbon into tight curly-ques......how frustrating it was when I zipped the wrong side of the ribbon and it lay limp and straight as an arrow over the paper, with no chance of curling ever again! (Later on, with the advent of stick-on bows and tags and wide satin ribbon, a whole new era of wrapping was introduced.)

Mamaw Mary's goal for Christmas day was to make it last as long as possible. She saw no sense in spending all of the preparation time only to have it over with by breakfast. In order to accomplish this, she developed several techniques that turned into traditions that I insisted we utilize when your mom and Aunt Bee were little ...... and I try to make sure that they are followed in your household whenever I can. First of all, your great uncles Bryant and Gene and I had to stay in our rooms on Christmas morning until Granddaddy Schaefer verified that Santa Clause had actually come the night before. Once he signaled that there were gifts left under the tree, we raced down the hall to the living room where we could see our initial bounty. After that, we went through our stockings but had to pause then for breakfast - which you might think to be unfair. Trust me, it was no burden. By this time, the smell of sweet rolls and cinnamon buns warming in the oven, coupled with that of bacon and sausage on the stove, overtook our senses. It was no sacrifice at all.

After breakfast, we reconvened around the tree to open presents and, boys, I must tell you that opening presents on Christmas morning at 3 Lakecrest could only be defined as an experience. Mamaw's most fundamental technique for extending the day centered around the presents. The sheer volume of them stacked half way up the tree, almost swallowing it, and she achieved the effect by making sure that everybody in the family had gifts both to and from everybody else in the family - including the dog and cat. If there were socks to be given, they were dispensed separately. If something had a bottom, its top would appear later. Granddaddy's carton of cigarettes was broken down into individual packs, each wrapped with its own bow and tag. (Thank heaven Mamaw didn't wrap each cigarette or we'd still be there!)

The number of presents was one thing. But the real culprit in making Mamaw's goal a reality was her rule that we open gifts one at a time. It would take us forever and every year, when the last package came out from under the tree, Granddaddy Schaefer would proclaim - "I think we have a record!!!"

What fun it is to remember these things with you.....and I'll be happy to have you blame me on Christmas morning when you are so eager to tear into your presents and be done with it......and your mom makes you sit still and watch and wait ......while all the gifts are opened.....one at a time.