I'm a present shaker from way back. When I was a little boy, I would rattle any Christmas present that had my name on it. And if I might be allowed to brag a bit, I actually got quite good at it figuring out what each rattle was.
Some things just made a certain noise when you shook them. A model car rattled differently than a jigsaw puzzle. Tinkertoys rattled differently than Legos.
Of course, not all presents rattled. Some presents swished. A swishing present usually meant your grandparents had bought you a shirt or sweater, or maybe a pair of jeans, because even shoes would rattle a little.
The exception, of course, is books, one of my favorite gifts. Books neither rattle nor swish.
To this day, I will shake a present before I open it. When you are an adult, though, you get a lot of swishing gifts – shirts, ties, sweaters – and I admit that I miss those noisy presents.
One year, when I was probably 7 or 8, my mother got even with me for all that shaking I did. A present appeared under the tree with my name on it. It was about the size of a shoe box, but, boy, did it make a racket when I shook it.
"What is it, Mama?" I'd ask.
"It's a box of rocks," she'd reply.
A box of rocks? What a joker she was. After all, I had been good boy that year and there was no way I was getting a box of rocks for Christmas, especially from my parents.
So I kept shaking it. But it didn't make model-car noises. It didn't make jigsaw-puzzle noises. It didn't make Tinkertoy noises.
"Please tell me what this is," I'd beg.
"It's a box of rocks," she'd reply.
Let me tell you, that present became an obsession. I'll bet I shook it a hundred times a day for the couple of weeks leading up to Christmas.
"Mama, please tell me what this is," I'd plead.
"It's a box of rocks," she'd reply.
Finally, Christmas morning arrived. When it was time to open our presents, the mystery gift was the first one I wanted. I may have set a world record for opening a present. Bows went flying. Wrapping paper went flying. The top of the box went flying. Tissue paper that protected the present went flying.
At last, I thought, I can see what is in this package.
It was a box of rocks.
I'm told the look of disappointment on my face was priceless, although there is no photographic evidence of this fact. My mother, meanwhile, had dived into the pile of wrapping paper looking for something I had missed.
On top of the tissue paper she had carefully wrapped around the rocks, she had placed a note, a simple little message that said that a brand-new bicycle was waiting for me out on the carport. In my haste to get the present opened, I never saw the note.
That box of rocks is one of my favorite Christmas memories. As we celebrate Christmas, it is my wish that you have a safe and glorious day, and that the memories you create with your family be memories that last a lifetime.
I know they will with my family. I proudly tell people that I've never gotten a lump of coal in my stocking, but I have gotten a box of rocks under my tree.
