I will always have, this one special Christmas throughout my childhood that I will never be able to forget. That year’s joyous holiday season started getting intense, a couple of weeks’ prior of the “BIG” day. My older brother (God rest his soul) brought in this present, (with my name on it mind you), that was so large, so gigantic, he had to bring it in through the double glass sliding doors.
This gift was mountainous. Swathed in red gift wrapping paper with profiles of Santa’s face printed all over it. You know, the ones that has all the likeness of Santa’s mug, no neck, no body, just his cheerful rosy expression?
Well this box, my present, was so massive it must have had at least 500 impressions of the jolly ole’ St. Nick covering it.
It was stockier and sturdier than our coffee table, that family and friends of—were commencing to use it as one, which was really starting to bother me! I mean what if they spilt something on it, ruining the largest present of my life?
For these two extremely long weeks straight, I awoke with my eyes wide-open to the size of large tiddlywinks, flying down the stairs to sum-up that colossal package that indisputably had my “name” on it. I had so many visions and theories on what could possibly be inside it. A String-Ray bicycle, a sled, Holy smokes maybe a go-cart; the possibilities of what could fit inside that casket was endless.
It was tormenting me to no end. I had to sit myself down, and keep telling myself “just be patient, Christmas is almost here.”
I know my brother was over enjoying himself watching me wallow in my frustration. The gleam in his eyes was way more than one receives from the basic joy of giving. He also had way more Christmas spirit that year than usual.
At long last, it became Christmas eve. I was at my wits end. All I had left to do was make it through midnight mass with my family and afterwards, it would officially be Christmas day.
Every kid in our neighborhood knew I was getting a present the size of King Tut’s Tomb. How little did I know how close to being on the mark I was.
On the way home from church I started my defense. “Please, can I open just one present when we get home? It’s legally now Christmas morning.”
I don’t know when my mother decided to jump on the, let’s torment Gary wagon, but by this point the whole family as riding high on it. She slowly turned her head back toward me in the backseat and says, “What present under the tree do you plan on opening?” Come on! She knew damn well my crate would never fit under the town’s square Christmas tree, never mind ours. It was bigger than our tree all together. Who the heck cares about all those pint-size presents under the tree. “Well, I suppose we can all open one present when we get home.” Finally, I fell backwards in the backseat, almost fainting in relief. The moment had almost come.
We pulled into our driveway; I swear my dad drove only two miles an hour just to get my goat.
When that front door unbolted, my feet never touched the top three stairs. I proceeded to tear, rip, and shred that wrapping paper to where there might have been a couple of Santa’s smirks left. I got the box stripped down to nothing but brown cardboard. There wasn’t a drop of ink on the cover or the sides of the box, it was completely barren. Wordless.
I worked to no prevail to get the lid off, it was twice the size of me. Finally, my brother offered a hand after just standing there grimacely staring at me. For the life of me I couldn’t figure what the heck he was waiting for. “Come on, let’s go.” I had to shout at him. I mean for goodness sake, the wagon ride was over.
Well, the longest two weeks of torment of my young life was nothing compared to what was inside that box. Years of torture, that’s what was in there. Bones! Yes, bones, can you believe it? Dinosaur bones to be exact. Even worse, they were of a T-Rex, one of the most terrifying, intimidating, goosepimply dinosaurs of them all. Not actual ones, but Styrofoam titan T-Rex bones. And when it was all put together it towered about six-feet tall, with teeth the size of my fingers. Also, if my childhood imagination didn’t run too far away from me, it “glowed,” in the dark!
My brother put it together in our basement, which was fine with me, until my mother would ask me go down to the laundry room for something. For years, when I would get to that basement door, I’d open it and run with my eyes shut until I hit a wall or something. That evil prehistoric thing terrified the hell out of me. Then my brother moved it right next to his bedroom door. Oh-Yeah! That put an end to me sneaking into his room. That may have been his plan all along, if it was, I’d call it success.
I went through years of mental abuse, that may explain a few things today. My brother and family got many years of chuckles and laughs out of it. I’m sure he’s laughing looking down upon me right now as I’m writing this.
So, hear it is folks. The proof is in!
Bigger, is not always better.
Merry Christmas everyone!
Gary Joseph LeBlanc