It was perhaps the year I was nine though more likely when I was eight. I am thinking eight because that was the year I was in grade three, the year I had the tonsillectomy, the year I missed nearly as many days of school as I attended; the year the teacher had no name. Okay, she had a name, I suppose, but I cannot remember it. I may have erased her the day she smacked the back of my hand with the ruler, which is about the only thing I remember about her.
This account is written in the first person whereas in most of my school tales I have identified myself as "The Boy." This is not a school tale as such. This particular year as the Christmas wish book arrived from Monkey Wards I began to dream my Christmas dreams. And I wanted one thing under the tree this year. This item was so precious, so dear in cost, that I knew to dream of more things besides would place me squarely in the realm of fantasy. I wanted This. One. Thing.
A Wood Burning Set.
I had never used such a thing. So far as I know I had never even seen such a thing but Montgomery Ward told me it existed. And that I needed it. Lust began. But dare I hope? Well, I did. Hints dropped, days passed. Hints became less subtle to the point that even Father knew what his only son wanted.
Then Christmas came, as Christmas will. Sister and I, still p.j. clad, rushed to the tree, and behold there was a package for me which approximated the size I imagined would contain
My Wood Burning Set.
And it did!
I played with that thing a bunch yet no memorable events occurred, neither untoward accident nor fantastic creation. No physical mementos of my efforts survive. If I created anything no one remembers it nor do I.
And eventually I did not use The Gift anymore.
But what do we say about kids and their toys, and the boxes they came in?
Word of the day: tonsillectomy
Happy birthday to my beloved daughter, Ivanelle, aka Ivy.