THE PERFECT GIFT
My 98 year old Dad and I sat visiting one afternoon. I had taken it upon myself to clean the table beside his favorite chair. Old envelopes, sweepstake papers and other discarded items cluttered the table so badly he could hardly find the things he did need.
After the papers were cleared I started on the conglomeration of other items. Tapes, CDs, various items he had bought from Publisher’s Clearing House for no telling how much. I hated those people every time I came into the house and he showed me something else he had bought.
I ran across several knives in sheaths, big hunting knives, small knives. Then he showed me a knife he carried in his pocket. A nice Case knife that a sister had bought him. Remembering a Case knife that I had bought him, a red one, I had to ask where it was. My mind went back to that Christmas and how I had searched for the “perfect gift” for my father.
Every year was the same. What do you get an aging father who seemingly doesn’t need anything, but then--- needs so much.
He doesn’t remember the red knife I gave him, doesn’t remember ever seeing a red knife. He had a replacement--- end of story.
As I picked up item after item--- “That was from Clearing House. I paid $20 for that.
I carefully placed each item, one by one, in a basket I had bought to help me organize.
A small burgundy case was my next item. “What’s that?” he asked.
“That’s a harmonica.”
“Where’d that come from”?
“I gave it to you for Christma,.” Came my reply, just knowing he’d remember it and thank me.
My mind wandered again to the shopping trip another Christmas to find the perfect gift.
I handed the harmonica to him and watched as he took it out of the case and put it to his
mouth.
“I used to have one of these that I could play anything I wanted.”
He blew into it and I recognized some notes from Red River Valley. I told him how good it sounded. He put it down, examining it carefully.
“Why, that’s made in Japan. They don’t tune them like we do in the United States. The one I used to have was a Horner.”
As I got up from my chair I approached him and put my finger on the brand name written in big letters across the harmonica. “H-o-r-n-e-r”. Not wanting to admit that his hearing was bad, he put it down. Okay!!!!!!!!!!
There’s a beautiful red guitar sitting in the corner of the living room that I bought him for a birthday a few years ago. Made in Korea—my first mistake. But, it was sent to the US with Gibson Guitar’s stamp of approval on it, so I thought it would be all right. I could hardly afford it at the time, but knew in my heart that this would be, the perfect gift. I remember driving to his home with this perfect gift in my car, just knowing his face as going to beam. As he strummed it and scrutinized it carefully he said, “Well, that’s made in Korea.”
“Yes, Daddy, but it has Gibson’s stamp of approval on it.”
Never mind. Enough said. It sits in the corner gathering dust.
After the organizing was done and my heart a little deflated we went to dinner where he was very quiet. I had told him I was coming to spend a few days because I wanted him to talk about his life. After the nightly news and a show that he liked to watch I got out my stenograph machine and sat close to him. I was hoping the machine wouldn’t intimidate him, but I shouldn’t have worried. He started talking immediately and for the next hour he talked about his life—he laughed at some things, looked serious about others. Short pauses in between, then picking back up again.
An hour or so later I needed a break. I turned off my machine, went to the bathroom and got a cup of coffee. In the meantime he had started listening to some Hank Williams music. He had Hank’s death all figured out, he said. Hank and his wife had separated so Hank could feel the pain and write the music. But when Hank wanted to get back together, she didn’t, so he took some pills. Why not? It made for a good story anyway.
Next he listened to some bluegrass music, but it’s not bluegrass, it’s country. “Bill Monroe ruined country music by singing the songs too fast and calling it bluegrass”, he said.
Next he played a CD of Bill Monroe and says, “Now, that’s good songs.” GO FIGURE.
The next morning came early for me, January 9, 2007. I was up at 4:30 and as soon as it was light enough to see I walked up through the field in back of his house. It had been a long time since I’d walked through the fields. I admired the view, so beautiful and serene. The frost was on the ground and I could almost hear Daddy firing up the old tractor and calling us out to help him gather corn.
On the walk my mind went back again to the evening before and the perfect gift. I was still a little upset that he didn’t seem to remember or be appreciative of things I had given him.
I suddenly realized that all the things I had given him were just things. I needed to give him some of my time, listening to his stories, his music, understanding that he knows his time is running out and he has things to say. That must be the perfect gift. I can’t imagine sitting day in and day out, most days saying very little, having something you want to say but no ears to hear it. That sounds horrible to me. If you have all the time in the World and no one to share it with----
That week I made a promise to myself to visit him once a month and stay a few days and listen to his stories and listen to his music, drink coffee with him whenever he wanted and just give him my GIFT OF TIME.
Linda Carothers
January 9, 2007
