Needless and needful

My parents are the consumate Christmas professionals.

My mother can draw an eye-popping Santa Claus. My Dad was Clark Griswold before Chevy Chase ever perfected the art of Christmas decor. Christmas at Mt. Willis was Rockwellian while other homes languished in more Orwellian tones.

Santa Claus never really died. Even in the past decade I’ve lived away from home, I would always walk back into the Christmas home to find the fruit of countless hours of shopping. Mom and Dad really liked to find good Christmas gifts. It always seemed to bring them a joy that I’ve never found in giving. Maybe I’m just too selfish.

In recent years I have come to discover that I need nothing that gifts can offer. It’s always nice to get something, but when I need something I usually just go out and buy it. I have conveyed this to my parents, but that has never stopped them from loading me down with gifts every time I go home. It seems giving to their children is they way they give to themselves. They came from nothing and they will live their lives making sure their children will never be able to say, “I came from nothing.”

Last week my mom called me, and though she didn’t say it out loud, I knew why she was calling.

Two months ago, my dad’s dad suffered a major heart attack. My grandpa is in his mid-eighties and according to doctors probably shouldn’t have survived. But he did. My family is one big group of survivors and Grandpa Willis is living proof.

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