On December 24th 2009,
my husband and I anxiously watched the weather channel, hoping for a safe drive
into Toronto. We dreaded the 45 minute
drive to the city, especially at Christmas.
This year the weather was on our side, one less worry.
We gathered
the carefully wrapped presents, climbed into our mini-van and buckled up. Here we go, I thought, a stressful drive to
his sister’s.
We
barely spoke to one another the whole ride there. We were too busy watching the other drivers
on the road.
Finally,
we exited the highway and arrived safe and sound. The kids were bouncing up and down, excited
that Santa was coming tonight!
The
afternoon went by so fast. We watched
the smiles on the faces of our nieces and nephew, so pleased the gifts were a
success. Then my sister-in-law made the
most peculiar comment.
“You’ll
be surprised when you open your gift at Mom and Dad’s,” she said or something
to that affect.
I was
puzzled. I didn’t ask for anything in
particular. In fact, I didn’t ask for
anything at all. Why was she so excited
for me to open a gift that she wouldn’t be there to see? Never has Christmas been about the adults,
it’s always about the kids.
We left
their two story home around 4:30 and drove the 15 minutes to his parents’
house. Through the subdivision to the
Queensway, turn left onto Islington, contend with traffic, yeah.
Every
time we’re back in the city, we’re grateful to have moved away from the
insanity. Living in cramped homes and
driving bumper to bumper each and every single day was not a life we were
willing to live.
We finally
pulled up in front of my husband’s childhood home. We noticed the Christmas lights twinkling
along the eaves troughs of the one and a half story house. My father-in-law no doubt had hung them, his
tradition every year.
“Merry
Christmas!” we all said to each other.
“I
talked to England,” my mother-in-law informed us.
“How’s
the family there?” we asked.
We
continued with our small talk as we made our way inside, gifts and all.
James
and I took off our coats and found our spots, me on the love seat and James on
the chair.
There
were a number of reasons we looked forward to Christmas at his parents, despite
the wonderful cigarette smell that permeates my clothes and the cat hairs that seem
to find their way onto only my pants.
One of
the reasons, aside from being with family, is there’s always a Christmas movie on
the television – usually A White
Christmas or It’s a Wonderful Life,
two movies I had never seen until I became a member of the family.
The
other reason we liked Christmas at his parents’ were the finger foods. The dining room table was always covered with
tiny dishes that made it feel like you really weren’t eating much at all.
This
year was no different. There were
cheeses with various types of crackers, Polish sausage, mini quiche, luncheon
meats, rolls, party mix and more.
What
was different about this year was the conversation. Every year we sit and chat before opening the
gifts. This year however, the small talk
was minuscule. I don’t even remember if
there was any.
“You
have to open one of your gifts now,” my mother-in-law said to me.
She
handed me a perfectly square, worn looking box with the top folded in that ever
so confusing manner. When you finally
learned how to fold the flaps down, it was an accomplishment you had rights to
brag about.
I
looked at the light brown marred box and went through the secret wish list in
my head of what could possibly be hiding in such a box.
All eyes
were on me. My father-in-law sat on the
couch under the bay window to my left.
My husband and mother-in-law were just off to my right, almost in front
of me. They watched in anticipation as I
stared at the box on my lap.
I
carefully opened the flaps and saw crumpled newspaper covering whatever was
hidden below.
As I
lifted the paper, I gasped in surprise!
There
resting on a bed of used newsprint was the most beautiful figurine I had ever
seen.
I
carefully lifted her out and gazed at the exquisite dark green ball gown with
soft pink puffed sleeves. Her light
brown hair was delicately styled high on her head. She gazed softly off to the side, gently
lifting her gown.
When I
turned to look at the bottom of the Royal Doulton, I saw my name: Michelle.
My entire
life I had always wished for one Royal Doulton with my name. A graceful elegant doll wearing a Gone with the Wind type ball gown.
“There’s
a story that goes with getting it here,” Dallas said.
She
began to explain that his sisters-in-laws had searched the internet for Michelle.
So even
my in-laws’ in-laws were involved!
“We
found it in England.”
“England? It came from England?” I replied.
How weird to have found my doll in England, where my mother-in-law’s
family is from.
“A man
named Burt sold it to me.”
“That
was your Dad’s name!” I exclaimed.
My mother-in-law
stared at me and said, “Wasn’t your grandpa’s name Burt?”
I
froze. I looked at James, then his mom,
his dad. We all had tears in our eyes. I’d
been thinking only of James’ family. After
all, they’re from England. I never
thought about my grandpa.
“Oh my
gosh, Grandpa. This is from Grandpa,” I whispered and tried not to cry. He’d
found my doll.
Walter
Burt Whitehead was my grandpa. He’d died
fifteen years earlier. So he couldn’t really be the Burt who found my figurine
(nor was it my mother-in-law’s Burt), but still, I had a feeling that this was
Grandpa’s way of reaching down from heaven to say hi.
***
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