Christmas Gifts

When everyone droops with gift-giving, even the dog Betsy, we take to the outdoors.

One walk with my niece and her youngest takes us past my childhood church, now a dancing school. "I wish they had dance here," my niece said. "The studio is so beautiful." "Oh yes," I say, "I can well imagine."



Another walk takes me and the older of the two Birmingham great-nieces to the filling station for AA batteries. We're on a mission: to take a few snaps. We photograph reflections in windows and doors, feet and each other, bricks and stones, and water. At home, I edit one of her photos, and her sister V exclaims, "Did E take that???" "Yes," I answer. "Wow," E says. I hope this is the start of something.

On the last walk, just before we take the turkey to the in-laws' house for Christmas dinner, my nephew and I stroll through Birmingham's Botanical Gardens. We marvel at ferns and names of hundreds of iris (I'd like to see them come up), walk up and down hilly paths, admiring crape myrtle bark aglow in late afternoon light, and stopping at the Conservatory entrance to read the plaques memorializing members of our "second family.

On our way home, we pass my father's childhood home and my two childhood homes, and I think of all those who aren't here now to enjoy Christmas -- my parents, my aunt and uncle, my second family "aunt and uncle," and one first cousin.

Their gifts live on in the season of giving.