So what gift do you give someone that’s been on this spinning blue orb for nine decades? (That’s 373 in dog years.) Last week I faced that very dilemma. Whereas I don’t really know what to give a dog that old, I’ve found the perfect gift for my dad, who turns 90 this week.
But before the great reveal of this year’s present, let us take a look at some of the other “perfect” gifts he’s received from yours truly over the years.
In the first grade I remember making my dad two tickets out of cardboard. On the tickets, written in bright red crayon was “Tickets to spend the entire day with you.” Why was the gift not perfect? Even though Dad gave me a hug and said thanks, he never used them.
Another example of one of my perfect gifts was a handmade ashtray. During pottery time in Old Mrs. Crabtree’s third-grade class, I carefully molded an ashtray out of brown stinky clay. The clay being stinky was the second best thing about making the present.
After molding the lump into a ball, I made room for all of Dad’s ashes by digging out the center. I then threw the extra clay and hit Down the Street Bully Brad in the back of the head. That was the best thing about making the ashtray.
Why was the gift not perfect? Dad didn’t smoke.
What was another one of my perfect gifts? A hammer. What dad out there wouldn’t want a new hammer for his birthday? At age 10, I spent all summer finding and collecting soda bottles from all over Flamingo Street. The day before Dad’s birthday, I thought it would be a good idea to take a quick trip to the 7/11, turn in my prized bottle collection and then buy a new hammer with the money at the local hardware store. Dad was surprised to get such a thoughtful gift. That is until he went out to the tool shed to hang it up.
Why was the gift not perfect? My three brothers and I spent the week before smashing nuts and splitting rocks with all his other hammers. Between the four of us, we “accidentally” destroyed six hammers, two handsaws, and one level. But we did learn some important lessons. If thrown into water, sledgehammers will sink faster than hammers, but neither can be found or retrieved after they sink into the muck at the bottom of a lake.
To be honest, while attending college, being married, raising a child, and finally helping to raise grandchildren, I’ve simply forgotten more of his birthdays than I’ve remembered. Of course, I’ve always sent a card or made a phone call, but most years either one or both have been late. But not this year. This year I have given him the perfect birthday gift.
After priding myself in remembering such an important birthday as his ninetieth, I bought a card, addressed it, affixed a stamp, and walked to the mailbox. Opening the front of the mailbox, I must admit I was full of pride because it was three days early. This year I would not be late. And inside of the card was a one hundred dollar gift card to his favorite restaurant. It was the perfect gift. Or so I thought.
Why it wasn’t it the perfect gift? You see, the mail for that day had already run. And in the stack of mail I pulled out of the box, between a flyer for a great deal on used cars and an Oprah magazine, were the power, phone, and cable bills. As I pulled them out and put Dad’s card in, I went to raise the flag on the side of the box. That’s when a lone letter fell out of the stack of mail and unto the ground. The letter address was in the shaky handwriting that I’ve become all too familiar with. It was from my Dad who now lives in Florida.
The stack of bills, and the letter, stayed on the kitchen table for two days before I had time to open them. Seems like all I have time for nowadays is babysitting our grandchildren. That is, until I opened the letter from Dad.
For you see, inside was the perfect birthday gift of all. Seems I had given it to him a long, long time ago when we lived on a familiar street not so far away.
Now brown with age, cracked with corners tattered, out from inside the envelope fell two cardboard tickets. The once bright red crayon was faded and barely readable: “Tickets to spend the entire day with you.”
I leave for Florida in the morning.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
