January 15 – As I was thinking about Christmas the other day, and how our son David and his family (including grandson Christopher and his new wife Shana) came to visit with all of the presents they brought us, I thought back on how Ma always made Christmas such a special time with her many gifts, most of them handcrafted.
She told me once she was worried that people didn’t really like her gifts since they weren’t “store-bought”. Well, I went home and wrote her a poem all those years ago, and I thought I’d share it with you. Merry Christmas, Ma!
Don’t worry that one in this family
Is not happy with what you have done;
We think that your fingers are nimble,
And we knew that you rise with the sun
To hurry and sew and make patchwork,
Crochet till you hardly can see,
So that you can give to your children
When at Christmas you go on your spree.
You bring out from closet and bedroom,
From all of the boxes and bags,
The afghans and quilts and crocheted things,
And rugs that you’ve salvaged from rags.
Then the aprons and cases for pillows,
Are quickly exposed to our view.
And we think of the hours and hours
That are wrapped in the packages too.
If you look through our house top to bottom,
You will find that your gifts all are here.
On our beds are the quilts and the cases,
Older quilts are packed up with our gear
That we take with us each year for camping,
And your aprons are worn every day.
The afghans add color to couches or are
Packed up for a rainier day.
So you aren’t just dreaming, dear mother,
Your gifts hit the bull’s eye each time.
They’re the kind of things no one can ever
Buy up in a store in this clime.
So just rest free and easy, old Santa,
What I’m saying is ever so true.
But the best of the reasons I think of,
Is that wrapped in each package is you.