Beech Tree News Network

My granddaughter, Sabria, came to me one day last week and said, “Gee, I have bad news.”
    “Oh really,” I said, “What is it?”
    “We have no presents under our tree,” she said.
    Let me explain.  I had many gifts wrapped and put away.  I didn’t put them under the tree, because I was afraid Sabria’s curiosity would get the best of her, and she would get herself in big trouble.
    “Go back to your play room and close the door,” I told her.  “When you come out, there will be presents under the tree.  And no peeking,” I cautioned.  She did as I said, and when she came out of the room, she was thrilled to find her expectations had materialized so quickly.   
    It’s often hard to anticipate what little ones expect during the holiday season.  We don’t have that problem with Sabria.  She will tell you in a second how things are supposed to be.
    A few days ago, she and I were winding our way through the subdivision where Ms. McCoy, her part-time sitter, lives.  Many of the residents there go all out when it comes to seasonal decorating, and we were admiring all of the Christmas regalia. 
    “Gee, we need deers on our grass,” Sabria said.
    “Look, there’s a deer!” I said, pointing to a lighted wire deer, wearing a bright ribbon, standing in a neighbor’s yard.
    “That’s not a deer!” Sabria said with authority, “That’s a goat with a red bow.”
    It took several more sightings before I figured out the lighted figures were only deer, in her book, if they had antlers.  If there were no antlers, they were designated as goats.
    I have never once agonized over what to get Sabria for Christmas.  She always makes sure I have a detailed list of items to choose from.  This year’s list included: the blue Monster High doll with the white teeth; Hover Ball—by Whamo (she wanted to make sure I didn’t get the knock-off version); Anna and Elsa with ice skates on their feet.  She’s very thorough. 
    She even has definite opinions about what constitutes legitimate Christmas music.  I have a whole bag of Christmas CDs we listen to when we’re in the car together.  She has memorized the numbers of her favorite selections.  She likes numbers four and ten on the “Home Alone” CD, eight and nine on “Kidz Bop Christmas,” and two and eight on “Classic Christmas.”
    One afternoon, I put in one of those “Now” Christmas CDs, just to switch things up a bit. 
    “I want to hear Rudolph,” she said.
    “I don’t know if Rudolph is on this CD,” I said.
    From the back seat, she began to chant, “Rudolph! Rudolph! Rudolph!” as I kept pushing the “next” button, in order to work my way through the selections.  To my surprise, I landed on “Rudolph.”  It was a jazz version of the song by Ella Fitzgerald or Lena Horne or somebody like that.  The song started out normal enough, but by midway through, it was barely recognizable; even taking the liberty of adding a bridge that went something like: “Hang your nose down, Rudy.  Hang your head and cry.”  I kept waiting for a protest from the back seat, but it never came.
    Finally, curiosity got the best of me, and I looked back to see what was going on in Sabria’s world.  When I saw the look on her face, I nearly ran off the road.  Her brow was furrowed, her eyes squinted, and her mouth was agape.  The look on her face said, “I don’t know what the heck this is, but it is definitely not Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.”
    I pushed “stop,” and we rode the rest of the way home in silence.  I have ridden in a vehicle with Sabria Grace Hughes on countless occasions since her birth, and never once has it been in silence.  That jazz singer accomplished in two minutes what I couldn’t do in nearly four years.  As far as I am concerned, it was a Christmas miracle, and I’m expecting other good things to come my way that I haven’t expected in the past.  It is, after all, Christmas, the season of perpetual hope, and unrealistic expectations.