Dad poked his head out his bedroom door, saw me passing by and yanked me inside.
“Help me wrap!”
He needed help with gifts for my younger brother and sister.
We sat on the floor, surrounded by ribbons and scraps of holiday paper. He was still in his blue work shirt after pulling an all-night tow call, asking me whether I thought Santa would bring me everything I wanted. I was 16.
I pulled from the Napa Auto Parts bag a rubbery black stick. He snatched it back. Because that was clearly MY gift.
“No, not that one. This bag. Wrap what’s in this bag.”
That’s how I knew, with my newly minted driver’s license and first used car, I got a tire air pressure gauge for Christmas.
Every year, my mom gave us neatly wrapped packages signed in perfect script with “Love, mom and dad.” She gave us clothes, toys and jewelry. These were the gifts we’d asked for and wanted.
Dad bought his own gifts. A mechanic and tow truck driver by trade, they came from auto part stores and sometimes luxury car washes. Over the years, I received sheep skin seat covers, new rims and tool sets.
He got us what he wanted, but it didn’t matter
I’m not knocking gifts of the gear-head variety. They were great, though perhaps not for teenage daughters and a bookish son. He got us what he loved. What he would have wanted.
On Christmas morning, in the heap of opened presents, his gifts lay untouched. He only wanted to see the rapture on his children’s faces when they opened the gifts from Pep Boys