One Last Present

Mondays through Fridays, Aunt Betty went to work. On Sundays and Wednesday nights, she went to church. She looked good on those six days of the week, because on Saturdays, she shopped. She liked a sale, but a sale was a bonus. Price really wasn’t that important. What was important was that she dressed well and could set a mean table.

About once a month, she “went to Montgomery.” Daddy King would drive Mama King and her to the Montgomery Mall, where he held their packages and people watched. They shopped at their Taj Mahal, their Mona Lisa, their Louvre. They shopped at (dramatic pause) Gayfers. About twice a year, the King Girls heard, “We are going to Montgomery on Saturday. Would you like to go?” Yes, please.

Indeed, Aunt Betty was a Shopper, but she was also a Gift Giver. She had 4 nieces and 2 nephews, and she never forgot a birthday. She didn’t merely give the gift. She pondered, fretted, and debated about it, too. She was certain that she bought the wrong thing. This was a wonderful problem for the Receiver of the Gift. At Christmastime, she gave each of her nieces a sweater, a pair of pajamas, a piece of jewelry, some makeup, and a bottle of White Shoulders cologne. If she purchased the item on sale, she would tell you so. If she paid full price for it, she raised her eyebrows said, “That’s a ni-i-ice gift.”

Oddly, the best part of Christmas Day came after the present opening. That’s when we got to go to Aunt Betty’s bedroom and shop. Since she was sure she couldn’t please us, she bought 2 of most items. Like “Let’s Make a Deal,” we could trade the gift we received for the unwrapped one hidden behind her closet door or under her bed. If we played our cards right, especially if one was bought on sale, we might be granted both.

As children grew up and grandparents died, we went less and less to Aunt Betty’s house for Christmas. She had a plethora of great nieces and nephews. Eventually, the gift giving slowed to a stop. In 2001, in the wee hours of the morning on the day of the National Peanut Festival parade, Aunt Betty’s house, the house that Daddy King built, the house where my daddy was born, exploded. She re-built, by golly, and lived there until she died in July of 2012.

Daddy King had 2 sheds built in the backyard. Real deal sheds. Cinder block sheds with electricity on a concrete slab. A pack-rat’s dream. There was also a manufactured, store-bought shed that Uncle Buddy put there after the fire. All that was salvageable, he put in that shed, presumably to go through on Another Day.

Recently, 2 first cousins tackled The Sheds, starting with the pre-fab one. We laid a tarp on the ground and emptied it. Hidden among the boxes of birthday cards and bank statements, between the few charred pieces of furniture that Daddy King built and that Uncle Buddy hoped could be restored was an unopened present, wrapped in green with a red bow and a McRae’s sticker on it (pronounced MACrae’s, for the uninformed).

The house had burned in October. Undoubtedly, this was from the Christmas before, tucked away and forgotten about. It didn’t have a name tag. Maybe she didn’t even know at the time whom she would give it to. And yet, there it was.

There was much debate about whether to open it or not. I voted not to. Oftentimes, the story is better unfinished. The present itself was our gift. It was so like her. So Aunt Betty-esque.

Do you think we opened it? What would you have done?