A Christmas Heirloom

For years, Christmas Eve has been my family's holiday celebration. All during that day, family members begin arriving at my father's house from Ohio, Wisconsin, and hours-away Michigan cities. Early arrivals claim bedrooms and beds; later ones get couches and lumpy sleeping bags...but somehow, we all get there.

Sisters-in-law and my sister and my aunt pitch in to bring our traditional-Polish Christmas Eve dinner together. The rest of us, adult males, cousins, nephews, and nieces load up on snacks, drinks, ping pong, and lots of sports' chatter. My dad just sits back and watches his home get disarranged during this seasonal metamorphosis.

After dinner, after desserts, after dishes are done, dried, and put away, we all settle down in the living room and get ready to exchange and open the gifts stacked beneath the tree. But first, we have to sing a few carols...always ending with "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

Then the presents. Wrapping paper shredded, bows and ribbons untied, ripped, and tossed as kids and adults readily open toys and gift boxes. All of this doing and undoing is followed by the "oohs," and "ahas," and "You shouldn't haves" which are echoed throughout the room. Gifts are held up for display and assembling. "Some assembly required" is the norm with tired eyes trying to read directions printed in some third country's attempt at English and then whoosh!

A whole season of anticipation, shopping, baking, and planning all done. All the excitement drawn into a quiet, thoughtful moment of rest and peace on our own little space of earth.

And so it was a couple years ago on a routine, very late Christmas Eve as we were picking up the last remnants of paper and ribbon from the living room carpet. Little guys were in pajamas and nearly asleep; adults were yawning and dreaming of coming dreams. It was just about time to say a last "Merry Christmas" and give a final goodnight hug to those leaving when my father pushed himself up from his comfy chair and announced: "I almost forgot, there is one more present."

So we waited and yawned another yawn as my father went searching for the missing gift. A short while later he reemerged holding what looked to be a very long, very dusty, very old rifle. Weary eyes got amazingly re-alert with the appearance of a weapon in the room.

My dad walked over to me and said, "Here, I want you to have this, it's a Japanese rifle that I brought back from the Philippines nearly sixty years ago.

As he handed it to me, I said, "Dad, why would I want this rifle?"

"Well," he replied, " I once asked that very same question. Let me tell you all a little story."

And with that, my father recounted a late summer day in 1944 when he was leading his Seabee surveying crew in in a semi-cleared area, laying out construction lines for an eventual B-29 landing strip. My father, the only officer, was on the transit giving long distance, hand signals to where construction stakes were to placed. When suddenly, a shot rang out from the adjoining, heavily wooded area. The crew took cover or dropped to the ground and waited for expected gun fire. After waiting a bit, they looked around, saw nothing, heard nothing else, and so continued their work.

Later that day in the mess tent, a Marine approached the table where my father and some of his crew were eating. "Hey, Seabees, who was running the transit out on the new field today?"

"I was,Sergeant."

Noticing my father's officer bar, the Marine said, "Sir, my men noticed a sniper in a tree and took him out."

"Yeah, we wondered what that shot was."

"Well, Sir," the Marine continued, "I thought you might want this Arisaka rifle."

"Sarge, why would I want that rifle?"

"Sir, I don't mean to alarm you, but this rifle was aimed at you."

"So Michael, maybe now you know why I'm giving this rifle to you...it's what could have come between me ever seeing you, my son, born just a few weeks before in that same summer."

Needless to say, damp eyes and hugs filled the room with the ending of that story. My brother, my sister, and I will never forget that Christmas. We will always be thankful for the father we have had and for that old, dusty rifle that did not separate him from the family that we became.