maker timer the night before.
It was supposed to be a time full of peace and goodwill towards everyone. Guess someone forgot to tell the children, because among the presents under their tree, peace and goodwill were nowhere to be found. As they opened their presents, fighting and bickering quickly began.
This was how Christmas started each of those seven magical years we spent growing up at 110 Flamingo Street. For example, the first Christmas we lived there, our parents thought a game called Jacks would be perfect for Twin Brother Mark and me to share. They were wrong.
It was a simple game: toss up a little red ball and pick up two jacks as fast as you can before the ball hits the ground. I tossed the ball, but Mark cheated. He scooped up all the jacks and started to bombard me with them. I retaliated by throwing the little red rubber ball, but it didn’t seem to be fair to me.
It didn’t seem fair to Mom and Dad either, us fighting on Christmas day. We got sent to our rooms to think about what had happened and to get ready to go to church. I thought about what toy to ask for next year that didn’t hurt as much as jacks. Those things are pointy and really hurt when one hits you upside the head. Not so much with the little red ball.
The last Christmas we spent on Flamingo Street, our parents finally got present giving right. Or so they thought. That was the year Mark and I got the same gift: fire trucks. How could we possibly fight over the same gift? Since they were each the size of a shoebox, it was hard to run around the house with both of them tucked under his arms, but somehow Mark managed to do so. Needless to say, we weren’t too good about sharing our toys.
I was happy the non-sharing gene wasn’t passed along to The Boy. Of course he was an only child, but I always thought he would’ve shared his Christmas toys if he had a little brother or sister. At least that’s what I thought until last week.
The Wife and I gave our granddaughters, Little One and Sweet Caroline, the same gift during a recent visit. After giving Little One her gift, a stuffed duck, we were delighted when she immediately shared it with her younger sister.
After praising her, we gave Sweet Caroline her gift. Older sister immediately took both ducks and ran around the room, just like Mark did when he grabbed those fire trucks. Instantly all the air out was sucked out of the room as Sweet Caroline inhaled before letting out an onslaught of screaming that sent our cats into hiding for days.
On Christmas morning, we’ll be sharing gifts once again, going to church, and enjoying spending time with family. Just hope I’m more successful teaching our granddaughters about sharing than our parents were with Mark and me.
Back on Flamingo Street, I never really got to play with my fire truck. Mark hid it, we moved soon afterwards, and it was lost forever. I asked Santa, but it wasn’t until years later that I got another one.
I joined the fire department and for 27 years drove around pumper trucks, ladder trucks, rescue trucks, and ambulances. And no, I didn’t let Mark play with any of them.
From The Wife, The Boy, and me, here’s hoping your and your family have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
(Special thanks to Glen who jarred this childhood memory from my mind.)
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
