A Charles' Dickie Christmas

He explained that wasn’t real sure how the tradition began, but over the years, enjoying all the commercial glam of Christmas, he and his sisters took additional great pleasure in giving one mean gift at Christmas. Dianne loathed pork rinds, and Sue’s gag reflex took over at the mere mention of mushrooms. He had a rash-causing aversion to dickies. These dislikes were known by all, and they had each honed their ability to leverage them to great effect. Each went to great lengths to be opportunistically mean gift givers.

There was the Christmas Dianne received Li’l Abner Pork Rinds disguised as Eagle Brand Premium chips. Another year, Sue received a stunning pair of dehydrated mushroom earrings presented in a luxurious blue velvet Hartzburg’s jewelry box.

“Why, poppa! Christmas isn’t supposed to be mean!” his little cherub-daughter exclaimed. “Why did you dit a dickie?”

Hearing her question, he was transported back in time . . . .

Charles stood nervously on the edge of the Michigan playground. His dad’s company had moved him from the metropolitan prairies of Shawnee Mission, Kansas – a mid-year move that placed him in a new school setting just before the Christmas holiday break. Trailwood Elementary. Day one. Recess. Clear. Bright sun. Windy. Cold.

A game of tag had sprung up and the primary grade herd stampeded, like so many zebras running from a lion. That lion was Franklin Johns. Big, bad Franklin Johns. The BMSGOC – the Biggest, Meanest Sixth-Grader on Campus.

Tag in the Michigan winter, in between snowfalls, when the snow and ice melted enough for the pavement to reappear was Franklin’s specialty. When he wasn’t limited to merely pelting you with snowballs, he was famous for his speed, agility and vice-grip. In dry conditions, he could catch any one, but he especially targeted schoolmates who wore turtlenecks – Michigan’s de rigueur winter wear and easily accessible even when his victims wore their winter coats.

Now, Franklin was just not very nice. He had four main objectives when in tag-pursuit: Spot a turtleneck. Yank the turtleneck up from behind, then down suddenly over his victim’s head. Smear the hair. And, untuck the shirt’s bottom hem from slacks or skirt.

As the kids scattered, Franklin rocketed toward the Trailwood newbie, espying his royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar. Flat-footed, Charles was no match for Franklin’s intercept speed. Coming from out of the sun with Charles at ten o’clock low, Franklin locked onto the royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar and yanked. Charles’ head disappeared into the fabric sleeve, and he went down like a steer hooked by a bulldogger.

Still in full stride, Franklin assessed the effect of his blitzkrieg attack. Head and face covered? “Check.” Smeared hair? “High probability.” Shirt untucked? “Negative! I say again, ‘Negative!’ Wait! What’s this in my hand? ‘Wing Commander, we have a dickie!’”

Charles’ mother thought dickies were very practical for Michigan winters. But at that moment, as Franklin was joined by a mob of classmate zebras, all gleefully braying, “What the heck? What the heck? Can’t afford a real turtleneck?!?” his faith and trust in his mother was severely shaken.

Over the years, he would warily scan the packages under the tree, wondering which of them would be the decoyed dickie. He was skilled at finding the concealed object of his displeasure. It was always conspicuously light, and silent when shaken. He only mis-guessed one year, when mean Sue crocheted a dickie on a ceramic duck ornament which had been hung weeks earlier on the Christmas tree.

As they worked through their respective piles of gifts, opening each one, Sue’s mushroom earrings, Dianne’s premium pork rinds, and his unveiled dickie were inevitably discovered, and drew predictable laughter from all the family.

The Christmas of the first dickie, as his stack of opened gifts grew, he slipped the dickie out of sight to be destroyed. Later, when no one was looking, he’d burn it, or toss it in the trash. Given parental mandates in force at that time, concerning the proper use of matches and other incendiaries, burning it wasn’t practical. So, into the trash it went. In fact, it wasn’t buried deeply enough in the trash and so Sue would easily retrieve it. He would receive the same dickie the next year and bury it at the bottom of the trash. Sue would still find it, and he would receive the same dickie again the next year. This time, he would hide it in his dresser – back right corner of the sock drawer. He never suspected that his mother was a treasonous double agent, in league with Sue. She was, after all, intimately familiar with his dresser drawers, and kept them stocked on laundry day. Next year, same dickie.

The years passed by. Family members aged and passed on as well. Children were born. Mean-gifting sisters became beloved “Aunties,” and the long-practiced and much refined tradition of mean gift giving seemed to wane.

To this day, however, in anticipation of and at Christmas gatherings, the younger generation still asks for and listens with rapt attention to the pork rind, mushroom and dickie lore secretly hoping at least one package will reveal the famous Christmas Dickie.