“You can throw it. You can blow it. You can put something in it. Now, what is it?”

The box, about the size of a man’s shirt box only a little heavier construction and a little taller, was brightly wrapped in all the normal Christmas paper and ribbon that would appeal to any kid.  It had been heavily taped so there was no way to sneak a peek without tearing the paper. Believe me, I tried.

My sister brought the gift to me about two weeks before Christmas and teased me with those words above, adding, “If you can guess what it is, you can open it early.”

I had been hearing all about the fabulous gifts her daughter was going to receive and could only imagine that this would be in the same league with them. After all, my sister was making such a big deal about it.

I scrutinized every Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogue and circular I could get my hands on, searching for any item that would fit the clues. I looked for the latest toys TG&Y had to offer, but nothing I came up with got me any closer to opening that present before Christmas, and my sister wouldn’t give an inch. I had to guess exactly what it was to open it early. She seemed to be enjoying the game she was playing with me—maybe a little too much?

Christmas Eve came and all the family gathered together to celebrate and open gifts. Who cared about eating first? Not me. Who cared about the kitchen getting cleaned up first? Not me. I decided that was just a stalling technique grownups used to taunt kids on Christmas Eve. They sure seemed to be in no hurry to see what awaited them under the Christmas tree. Me? I didn’t think I could stand waiting to get my hands on the fabulous thing in that box.

It was time. The first gift I reached for, of course, was the “throw, blow, and put.” No neat unwrapping for that paper. Rip and toss! I thought I’d never get all that tape off. It had been sealed everywhere. I tore into the box itself. Taped inside so they wouldn’t move were three items:  jacks, a blow pop, and a rubber hairband.

I know my disappointment couldn’t have escaped anyone, but I had been threatened with “I don’t care what you get from anybody. You act like you like it, smile and say ‘Thank you’” from my mother and I knew she meant it.

“Thank you” was a little muffled as I forced-smiled but was unable to look anyone in the face.  I knew I’d never fall for that gimmick again.

My dad was a painter/carpenter and frequented the local hardware store several times a week. I didn’t care anything about going with him, but one November I tagged along for some reason. It turned out to be a life changing experience.

I was introduced to the owner’s daughter and was immediately taken by her friendliness, her red hair (I’d never met anyone with hair like that before) and her name—Faye. My middle name was FayE. I’d never met anyone named Faye before either, with or without the unique capitalization my mother had insisted on putting in my name.

I began to go with my dad every chance I got just to see Faye again. After all, we had the same name and she always smiled and spoke to me.

I would mosey around the store looking at the toys and watching Faye out of the corner of my eye. Then, one day, I saw it—the most fabulous doll that had ever been created. It had red curly hair, like Faye’s, and a purple dress.

I showed it to my dad. “Oh, isn’t this the most beautiful doll you’ve ever seen?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It’s quite nice.” He looked at the price.

I saw his eyebrows immediately go up. So much for that doll ever belonging to me!

I began going to the store every chance I got and my first stop would be to see if that doll was still on the shelf. I memorized every feature about her. If she wasn’t going to come home with me, I would at least be able to remember her for the rest of my life.

I named her Kimberly. She became my imaginary doll-friend. I pretended one of my other dolls was her and we had great adventures together. After all, the real Kimberly was too fine for me. She needed a super owner, and I began to tell Faye and my dad that I hoped she got the best home in town. I just knew someone would snatch her up for Christmas.

I could hardly believe that she was still in the hardware store two days before Christmas. I began to worry that she might not get a home.

“Well, there’s still Santa,” Faye assured me. He’ll probably pick her up for just the right girl yet.

It was a nice Christmas with lots of laughter, food, family, and gifts all around. I got to stay up way past bedtime. There was a lot of talk about when Santa might come, and I was eagerly awaiting a couple of things I had told him I wanted.

Someone said, “What was that noise outside? Did you hear that? It may be someone messing around. We better go see.”

All the men jumped up and headed out as if they were ready to defend us against something really serious. I drew closer to my mom.

My dad came in with a brightly wrapped box. “Look what I found just laying out on the porch. It says ‘To Glenda, From Santa.’”

Wow!  He was supposed to come in the morning. What in the world could this be? Everyone was watching, in what I thought was wonder and amazement, as I took the paper off.

There she was—Kimberly! And she belonged to me. I don’t think Santa ever brought any girl anywhere a better gift.

By the way, I thought you might like to know that the purple dress wore out long ago and the red hair got pretty mussed up, but Kimberly now rests comfortably, wrapped up in a sheet on the shelf in my closet. Every time I go in that closet for something, I remember her and a smile crosses my lips. Kimberly was the gift that just keeps giving!

Author: GlendaCameron
Author, writer, radio host, and educator Glenda Cameron has been co-host of TownTalk since 2006. In addition, she serves as Media Producer and contributing writer to www.towntalkradio.com. She began her radio career in Littlefield, Texas, at KZZN, later moving to KJAK and KFRE in Lubbock. Glenda’s hobbies include guitar, piano, and scanography.