In a class for  memoir writing at Writers' Village University, I wrote the following TRUE STORY about myself.

My Special Christmas Gift

"How's your weight?" Bob asked, always the first words out of his mouth when phoning. 

I seldom had an encouraging answer for my brother.  "Don't worry about it, Bob.  I bought some clothes two sizes too big so everyone will think I lost weight."  From the silence I realized my brother, the businessman, didn't understand my attempt at a joke.  "Actually, Bob, I have a diet planned for tomorrow."

"Don, you're invited to have Christmas dinner with us.  See you on the twenty-fifth."

Wow!  Didn't the last Christmas just end yesterday?

Christmas at my brother’s would be populated by married people and their delightful kids, plus one loner, Don, Don Hurst.  Everyone is married.  All my friends are married.  Everyone in the world is married.  There would be presents galore and I would receive my yearly allotment of socks, calendars and cologne. 

Christmas found me late with my rent and the electric company flickering my lights as warning of eminent shut off…or perhaps old light bulbs played a part. 

Understand that money and I have an adversary relationship.  Put a ten dollar bill in my wallet and by the time I pull it out it will be a five.  I borrowed enough money from my brother…who is my “dear sweet” brother when he lends me money…to purchase gas and a case of oil so my old oversized station wagon could chug to his house, a two hour's drive inland from the Northern California coast where I lived…existed. 

Let me digress for a moment with a few words in my defense.  I have always considered myself an artist and writer.  It seems the only people who like my art are children and those stoned.  So I tended to have mediocre jobs as I continued on my quest of producing paintings no one wanted and writing stories no one would ever see.  You might observe that as pathetic, but I see it as a life lived doing what I wanted and having fun with my delusions. 

I would've loved to give each family member a painting, but they all found my art puzzling, except for the kids.  If I had a way to get all the adults stoned I bet they would have loved my paintings, along with everything in the refrigerator.  I never gave the kids any artwork because such gifts would shortly end up at the Salvation Army for other artists to paint over. 

All this lingered in my mind as I went to the local discount grocery store to buy motor oil.  I think they used cheap oil to draw in under financed artists.  I pushed my cart through the vegetable section to get to the meat department when I saw them.  Large beautiful Russet potatoes!  I have spent many a meal with a big Russet potato as the main course when my meat-money had been spent for the month.  Filling, good, chewy and cheap.  But I never saw Russet potatoes like these.  Huge!  Heavy!  Perfectly formed.  So I purchased ten.  Two for me, eight for my family for my Christmas present.  Oh how they would like my gift.  Beautiful to look at and better still in the stomach. 

I made a project of this.  In Everything For a Dollar store I found a gift box and short pieces of Christmas wrapping other stores couldn’t sell.  I chose blue paper, selected some red ribbon and put them all together in my head and decided it was worth the three dollar expenditure…after all, it was for my family. 

At home I washed those wonderful brown potatoes until a microscope couldn’t find a germ or a speck.  I toweled them off, making sure to rub until they had a slight sheen to them.  I remembered some pink tissue paper I saved from last Christmas, which I put in the gift box as a worthy display background.  I laid the eight spuds in two rows, side by side as if they were jewels to be presented to the President of the United States.  I next went to my computer and on thick red paper printed a sign in 72 point letters, the largest my word processor possessed.  I put the sign in the lid so when the box was opened it would be there announcing my Christmas gift to the family.  The package was very heavy. 

Christmas day and my brother’s house was alive with kid energy swirling around the adults, who were taking pictures, talking politics and celebrating the coming of the baby Jesus.  At the Christmas package ceremony rip-off my gift became the center of attention for one glorious three minute period.  Gone where the thoughts of the strange artist broke uncle, and in his place stood Unk Don, Don Hurst.  All thought disappeared from my head except for my projection of their joyous reaction upon seeing my gorgeous spuds. 

Brother Bob announced the package was from Unk Don.  They called me Unk, because I liked “Unk” better than “Uncle.  He pulled off the red ribbon with a flourish and it floated to the floor, its duty performed.  Bob's fingernails dug into the blue wrapping paper and in a majestic sweep of his hand the paper ripped off in a flurry of muscle against wrapping…muscle winning.  No one seemed to notice that it was a special gift box.  He jerked up the lid and saw the beautiful Russet potatoes, all lined up side by side in two rows, like solders ready to do their duty. 

He turned the box around so the others could see Unk's sign.  He stared at me with his 'you're nuts' expression.  Patti, Bob's wife, put a hand to her mouth.  The kids giggled, even the ones who couldn't read.

The sign proclaimed: DINOSAUR TURDS.

Patti cooked my present and with an alamode of melted butter and gravy, me and my brother’s family ate a delicious side dish of dinosaur turds.

"Pass the turds, please," Bob's oldest son Frank said.  Kim, his wife, slapped his chest.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I meant, dinosaur turds."

"Leave me some turds," Bob's youngest son Lee said.  Jennifer, his wife, slapped his shoulder.  "Okay, okay.  Dinosaur droppings."

I guess that's the way it is to be married.  I believe they all loved my special Christmas gift, and they repaid me with smiles and acceptance.  Neat, huh?

Don