Christmas Crane

December 19, 2016

Greetings from the thought that counts,

Norman drove his truck slowly through town, trying to decide where to stop.  He stared at the shops crammed along the sidewalk as if they were a phalanx of enemy soldiers.  He scowled. 

There in the window of Hubbard’s was a sign: ‘Gifts for that person who has everything.’  It was not exactly his situation but it inspired a decision.  Norman wedged his truck among a line of cars corralled by a dirty snowbank along the sidewalk. 

Norman stood at the counter and waited for the girl with the antler ears to notice him.  When she finally asked how she could help he pointed to the sign in the window. 

“I need whatever that sign is talking about.”  he said.

The girl looked over her shoulder and back at Norman.  “You want a Christmas present?”

Norman frowned and nodded.  “My wife.  She has everything,” he jutted his chin at the sign “and I need to get her a gift.”

The girl smiled hopefully: “Maybe a sweater?”

Norman thought for a moment and nodded.  Something about a sweater sounded familiar; did Irene say she wanted a sweater?  He was sorting through conversations they’d had recently but couldn’t concentrate because the girl was talking again.

“What size is your wife?”

Norman considered this.  He stretched out his hand horizontally and raised his arm, gauging about where Irene’s head should be.  He glanced at the girl to see if she was following his description.

“I mean, is she a 7, or an 8?  What size is she?” the girl tried again. She was wiggling her fingers as if that would help make the question clearer.

Norman thought.  The numbers meant nothing to him.  He knew his shoes were 11.  This didn’t translate to anything he could apply to a sweater.  He tried holding out both hands now, trying to estimate about how wide Irene was.  The girl shifted from one foot to another.  Finally they both gave up.

He went in and out of the Ben Franklin, and then the hardware store, and then finally a shop that carried nothing but candles, which smelled so strong he left without even speaking to anyone.  He walked back to his truck empty handed and sat in the cab, fogging up the windows, thinking.  He remembered why a sweater sounded familiar.  It was what he gave her for Christmas last year.  Or maybe it was two years ago. 

Norman jerked the truck into gear and pointed the hood out of town.  He was not going to find a Christmas gift here, but time was running out.  He grumbled to himself and complained, not for the first time, about the whole idea of exchanging gifts.  “You give me something and I give you something and we’re even-steven. What’s the point?  Might as well just keep your money in your wallet.”

And then it happened.  A few miles south of town he saw it, sitting in a field of corn stubble.  He let the truck coast to a stop, idled half off the tarmac, his tires crunching the last bit of snow mixed in with the gravel there.  His reflection in the rear view mirror showed his mouth was agape.

He wondered to himself why he hadn’t thought of it before.  It was clear as crystal to him, as if it had been sitting in his subconscious for all these years and suddenly revealed itself.  He sat at the side of the road for a few minutes, and then drove on to the driveway and pulled in.  Twenty minutes later he was driving out, smiling.

Norman stood at the bank counter waiting for the third person he would talk to. 

“I understand you want to make a withdrawal.” said the man.  He wore a suit flecked with lint and a small gold badge that featured his name and a title; Assistant Branch Manager.

Norman nodded.

“But unfortunately, your account currently does not have that amount.  I’m sorry.”

Norman looked up, and for the second time that morning pointed at a sign on the wall.  The assistant manager turned to look where the knotty finger directed.  The sign said:  “Need Money?  We can help!”

“I need money.” Norman said.

On Christmas morning he got up before Irene and made coffee and peeked out the back door, and then snorted, had to hold his fist to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.  He quietly clicked the door closed and tip toed back to the kitchen.

Irene was up soon after the coffee finished perking, already dressed, her hair brushed back.  She poured cups for both of them, fixing his just the way he liked it, as she always did.  She brought their cups to the living room.  They sat in front of the tree and they each opened gifts from the kids and then she gave him the gifts she had for him. 

She gave him new boots that fit perfectly, a book he had mentioned back in June, an adjustable wrench exactly like the one he lost when he was trying to fix the neighbor’s sink.  There were socks to replace the tattered pairs she had thrown away when she did his laundry.  A new case to keep his glasses in; she knew he lost his old one but would not admit it to her.

Irene was a patient woman, and a realistic person, which came from nearly five decades of marriage experience.  She knew Christmas was not his favorite time of year; he didn’t even like to put lights on the house.  She did not have high expectations when it came to gifts from Norman.  She had quietly returned each sweater he bought her and exchanged it for the correct size, or in most cases, for something else she really needed.

But this morning Norman was different.  He was like a little boy, red in the cheeks, smiling at every gift he opened, never asking what anything cost.  Irene sensed he had something special in mind this morning, and for a few moments she went back and forth between hope and worry.

“Irene,” said Norman, dramatically standing up in front of the tree, “I have a special present for you.  It’s a humdinger.”  This was an adjective that Norman reserved for rare moments.  “We have to go outside so get your coat, and then you have to close your eyes!”

The two of them walked out onto the back porch and down the two steps to the driveway, Norman guiding Irene by the elbow, holding his other hand in front of her eyes in case she was peeking from behind her gloved hands.

“Ok, Irene.  This is it; you can open your eyes.”

Irene took a deep breath and lowered her hand and looked out into the empty lot next to their house.  And for a moment she was at a loss, wondering what to make of what she saw.  And then she could not catch her breath.

Norman stood there looking at her, smiling so wide she could see the silver crowns on his back molars.  “It’s amazing, I know.  These are really rare.  Made right in Lima Ohio, but you can’t find them just anywhere.”

Irene knew just enough to say that it was a crane.   The cab was bright mustard yellow, the boom reached across the entire length of the lot, even extended as it was at a 45 degree angle above the power line.  She was trying to form her first question but Norman was still talking excitedly, scurrying ahead to touch the tracks of the crane, pointing out the engine access, the pulley mechanism.

“It came with a bucket and a wrecking ball, but if we want other fittings we can always get them later.” he was saying.  “Well, you know,” he winked at her, “Your birthday is in March!”

Irene knew then, or at least allowed herself to know.  He was giving her a crane for Christmas.  They were not excavating the yard to build a garage, or a tennis court, which would have been outlandish enough.  He had bought her a crane for Christmas. 

“Norman,” she said, and paused; “Norman, I don’t know what to say.”  She felt tears stinging her eyes, and a sick feeling in her stomach.

He raised his arms and held them out to frame the crane, and then turned back to her, his face beatific, glowing, joyful.  “See, it came to me.  I was driving home and I remembered.  When we first got married you said to me you always wished you could drive a bulldozer or a big rig like this.  You remember?  And we laughed about it, like it would never happen.  And by golly I saw this and thought it was just meant to be.  And by golly I made it to be.”

Irene looked at the crane, glanced around at the neighbor’s houses, wondering what they would be thinking when they looked out.  She stared at her husband, saw what it was that was driving him.  He was not losing his mind, which was her first thought.  He was finding his heart.  The look in his eyes, that excitement in his voice was not dementia.  It was love.

For the first Christmas in forty seven years together he had bought her a gift she had actually wanted.  It was a long forgotten conversation, a casual comment, she didn’t even know the context.  But he remembered it and he made it a reality for her.  Among all the sweaters and carrot peelers and toilet seat covers and candy she was allergic to and hats she would never wear and appliances she already had, he had finally bought her a gift because he was sure she would enjoy it. 

And now the tears came to her, not from fear for her husband’s sanity but from her own love for him, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  For a crane.

“One more thing Irene.” said Norman.  He was rubbing his hands together as he said this, and then jogged around the side of the crane, hidden for a moment behind the cab.  A moment later, she saw a string of red and green Christmas lights blink on along the boom of the crane.  She noticed then he had hung a wreath at the top.

He was back beside her, his arm around her shoulders, both of them admiring the sight, their breath making little clouds in front of them. 

“Merry Christmas Irene.” he said, and kissed her cheek.

“I love you too, Norman.” she said, and nestled her head against his shoulder. 

And just then she remembered that day, long before the kids, just the two of them, standing like this, close in each other’s arms, and she had said to him, “I would love to run a crane sometime. Or maybe a bulldozer.”  And they had laughed together and loved each other, and walked into their lives filled with promise, toward this day.  This crystal clear Christmas morning when he would give her what she dreamed of.

Hope this finds you getting what you want,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith