The Christmas Duck Box

"You just wrapped your own present."

     I was always duped. As were my brothers. A box would slide across the floor and we'd begin wrapping not even knowing the contents. My mom always bought so many Christmas presents, we'd spend several evenings in our large family room wrapping. Paper, ribbon, tape and scissors slid from one corner to the next as we each did our part to help. Ready made bows weren't around then, so we made our own winding circles of ribbon, cutting, tying and pulling loops this way and that. Mom's were pretty. Ours, comical. The fireplace would crackle while Andy Williams crooned on the console TV.

     When I was a teenager, I did a little better in the wrapping department. I remember one year, for my dad's birthday, I decided to wrap the box top so it could be reused. This, of course, was long before recycling was considered. I don't know why, but the paper I chose was a blue windowpane print with ducks on it. Probably what we had on hand.

     "How clever!" Mom said. "We can use this again." And we did. Every Christmas.

     Sometime after 1985, the Duck Box resurfaced. Of course, Mom put Christmas paper over it and sent it to my house. Not to be outsmarted, I returned it the following Christmas. That began the "Duck Box" tradition. You never knew when it would appear since it was a standard size - like a dress shirt box. Some years, it held unexciting things like under ware, but other years, it contained the big present. The one you never expected and loved the best.

     As the years progressed, the Duck Box took on personality. We couldn't be happy with plain old ducks. Mom got out markers and added festive Santa hats and holly. The next year, I put on sunglass stickers. Mom decided they needed polish on their web toes. One even laid a golden egg. And we didn't stop with the cover. Inside was tissue paper - with Christmas mail stickers, return address labels from our different houses, the original yellowed wrinkled tissue and a few styrofoam packing peanuts thrown in for good measure. At some point, on the back of the box, we began marking the years with our initials. Somehow, we always remembered who had The Duck Box. I loved it.

     The Duck Box is gone now. It made it's last trip over 3 years ago. It was my turn to send it to Mom. If I could have wrapped up a cure for cancer, it would have been the best gift ever hidden inside that tissue. Somehow, I knew I'd never see it again, so I carefully clicked pictures. I guess I knew that there would come a time when I'd tell a story about a silly old box full of love. Yep - I just wrapped my own present, Mom. Thanks for the memories.

Remember?

I love a good story. And a storyteller who can paint with words. My mother could capture my imagination and weave it through the stories of an era past. Whether sitting on the steps leading into our kitchen or lying with my head in her lap as she stroked my long hair, she would remember pages of her story. I can still hear her voice in my memory.  Soothing, amused, and sometimes pained. I focused on every word and tried to store it in my memory along with nursery rhymes and Winnie The Pooh adventures. I knew then that someday these would be worth retelling.

This August, I'll remember her passing for the second anniversary. She was such an amazing, gorgeous, funny, intelligent survivor of a life that could easily become a novel. What thrills me the most is that she was always a Jesus-truster and in the latter years, finally knew the personal surrendered relationship that makes all things new. I have no doubt she is singing love songs to him in heaven with her restored voice and I look forward to joining in with her someday. What a treat to harmonize together!

Mom was always my sweetest encourager and my efforts at writing were met with cheers. When I sorted through her folders, I was touched to find one filled with every piece I had sent her. From dramas written for church production to devotional thoughts on raising children, they were three-hole-punched and clicked into that folder. Knowing her, she reread them often.

Six months before she died, I had the fortunate opportunity to attend a 3 day writing workshop with a dear friend and mentor. I had submitted light devotional material thinking that was where I needed to pick up after putting my writing on hold for twenty years. When my friend, Cec, met with me on the first day, he gave me some compliments and critiques but then sat back and said, "This is good and it's fine, but I can't help but feel there's something better just waiting to be written by you. I don't know what that is, but I know it's there." At that moment, I knew what it was. I returned to my laptop sitting among the other writers at the table and opened a new page. Memories flooded my mind and I could envision the stories as if I were watching a movie. A little girl in an orphanage during the depression. A life with strict foster parents who showed no love. A teenager with a promising voice singing at nightclubs followed by late night homework. Big band travels. Marriage and divorce. Marriage again and a house full of children and friends needing shelter. Alcohol. Murder. And always hope. My fingers flew and the scenes unfurled. When I told Mom I was writing her story, she cooed over the phone that it filled her with happiness.

It's a disappointment to me that in the two years since then, I've only written six chapters of her story. A blip on the screen. I repeatedly vow to carve out time to write. I head to the library to become a sequestered novelist. Too many times, my plans are set aside for other things on the to-do list. But, when I succeed and sit before the screen, it happens. Suddenly, I'm lying on the couch and if I concentrate, I can feel fingers lightly stroking my hair and hear a beautiful voice telling a tale.