Tis.....

Tis.... Anyone that has read Frank McCorks "Angela's ashes" understands this one word.... I believe it is the last word of his book and the title to the 2nd book of his story growing up in Ireland without a dad and a mentally ill Mom... starvation and abuse causes this boy turned man into a fighter. A fighter with a purpose. A Fighter who looks back on his dreary childhood that propells him foreward to look for better...at more than just America.

I am not sure why i chose this story to talk about today.. perhaps, because i just have come back from a family gathering that consists of my Very Brogue Scottish Step Mother and tales of her Scottish upbringing.. and learning more stories of my Irish Grandfather and all the ancestry... i guess i long for my County of Cork in Ireland... land of my forefathers.

My sister Jalet and I, together this year wrote a memory down for my Dad and presented him with the symbols that the story was about... 3 ducks... here it is...Tis....

Three for Three


Street lights gleaming with halos. The Evening traffic was slow and careful, taking shoppers and employees alike home for the winters evening. 3 days until Christmas and a thin fog in the air, snow and ice with crispy slush frozen in between covered, the sidewalks and shady streets, as breath could be seen, even through a scarf wrapped face.

A gloomy gray sky threatening a fresh snow, hovered over a little buck toothed girl with a warm smile, her red ribbons of hair to match and frame her glowing cheeks. Her soggy shoes, trudging across a small country town, this girl with a vision, a purpose, a child’s mission that would be carried out, with pride and with the indomitable Christmas Spirit. In her coat pocket she clung tightly to the clammy coins she had earned, along with coins that her brother and sister had given as well. Money that was begat through the careful turning of sofa cushions, change bowls, beer bottles mingled along with a few Coke bottles, that had been returned by little hands at a mere $.02 cents a piece, until finally the sum of $20.00 had been hard won.

There had been shoveled sidewalks, Grandmotherly donations, and a little bit of savings all pooled together. Now, as she entered the Rexall Drug store on Main Street, she knew exactly where to go. This was not casual window shopping, that had brought her out into the darkening sky at an hour, a little later, than her mother would have approved of. This trip was a special one. She had with the secrecy and the confidence of her brother and sister told her mom she was meeting a friend to help her Christmas shop for her widowed mother. She was actually breaking all the rules and going alone to purchase a gift from all three children. Being only a 9 year old she would never be allowed out on such a night even in a small town, that was more like extended family than nameless strangers. She walked down the small appliance aisle. New electric skillets, Fondue pots, coffee Pots and even the latest new Drip Coffee maker by the name of “Mr. Coffee” lined the shelves. She looked at the electric knives with indecision and then moved on to what she had set her hopes on. The New Rival Electric Can opener with knife sharpener stood waiting like a puppy in a pet store window.

A nice portly gentleman came up and asked this little 9 year old girl if she needed help. With her green eyes glowing with pride, she spoke and asked to have one of the can openers, and could it please be gift-wrapped, that she could pay for the extra service. As this round gentleman smiled, the way you do, when you are being polite to a child. The Young Girl felt she had made the best decision for her Mother ever.

Mother, had a clunky old yellow metal GE electric can opener that was at least as old as her youngest daughter. The original can opener was ancient in the mind of the red head, as her baby sister, had already turned 6, memories of hearing the grind of the old can opener long before the baby sister came into the family. To a 9 year old, 6 years of anything seemed so old. Now the old heavy and outdated can opener could go to wherever mothers sent old appliances. Mom would have the finest and easiest to use can open of anyone she knew, and we wouldn’t have to suffer the grinding drone as she opened the canned cat food for our family cat, “Mamma Kitty” while fixing dinner. Mother could even sharpen her knives before slicing the onions for the Hamburger Helper. As the perfect and helpful gift of great pride was being expertly wrapped I, the red headed cherub, turned my attention to the special gift for our Dad.

We all, had wanted something that our Dad, would look at and think of his own three children. Dad often worked late and was gone before we got out of bed. This Gift needed to be something he would see everyday. In a display case near the cash register, were small figurines. As I ran my eyes over the contents of the case, I suddenly spied something that would be a touching and expressive gift of our love. There, on the shelf were the small figurines of 3 ducks. The ducks were about the height of a matchstick and would have spanned just over the width of a fifty-cent piece. Just as I got a quick look at these perfect symbols for our Dad, the motorized case moved the shelf around, out of view, like Ferris wheel in the Fall. I had to wait until it would come around again. I then hit the button to pause the machine long enough to get a good gaze. As I waited, I thought about the stories Dad had shared about Pheasant Hunting with his Grandpa and Father. I thought to myself “That is just like the three of them, and now he has, three children of his own,” this will really make him think of us and have good memories!” I confidently asked for the ducks to be gift wrapped in something for our Dad. For many, many years this symbol, sat on the mirrored shelf that hung over the Credenza. I remember it being on the corner of the fireplace mantle for a time. The place it seemed to reside the longest though was in dad’s bathroom on the shelf below the mirror.
I don’t remember Dads, exact reaction when he opened the gift. But I do remember that in all the many times we moved, dad always seemed to locate those three little ducks. He never used words, to say the ducks were special; he just always seemed to find a little cubby that would spark his heart when he spied them. A gracious and loving Dad made the three of his children feel so important with our little knick knacks of love.
Thank you Dad, for rendering a gift important, based on the love of the givers and not the small cost of the item.
Merry Christmas, from your three little ducklings.
Jalet, Ryan and Kary