by Glenn Beck
While most people on television tear off the wrapping paper, crinkle it up into a ball, and throw it into the trash bag across the room, we always had to open the packages slowly and carefully so that we could reuse the paper the following year. I think my mom and grandmother were secretly in a game to see which one of them would be the first to be unable to salvage the paper anymore. This year each of their gifts had been wrapped in paper that was only two years younger than I was.
While I always hated the whole paper-saving process because it slowed down the present opening, it did help cover up any mistakes that Grandpa and I might’ve made during our “previews.” If we’d accidentally torn a bit of paper or ripped a piece of tape, it could always be blamed on the mandatory recycling program.
I picked up one of the boxes that had my name on it. It wasn’t even wrapped. I slowly pulled the ribbon off, lifted the top, and pushed the tissue paper out of the way. My heart was racing with anticipation. If anyone would wrap up a clue to a scavenger hunt that would end with a bike, it was my grandfather.
My hands shook with excitement. I looked up at Grandpa, and he had a wide, twelve-year-old’s smile on his face. It was a good sign.
I tore through the final piece of tissue paper and finally uncovered the gift: Handmade pajamas and a pair of handmade slippers that were made with the same yarn as my sweater.
Fantastic. I’d been fooled again.
Not wanting a repeat of the sweater incident, I put on the happiest expression I could muster. “Thanks, Grandma, these are really nice. They match my sweater perfectly.” By now I was getting pretty good at faking excitement.
“They certainly should…your mother and I split the yarn. What a deal we got!”
“A tool belt!” I heard Grandpa bellow from across the room. “What a surprise. It’s exactly what I needed!”
The day was turning out to be a disaster, and I didn’t want to drag it out any longer. I reached for my last present, feeling a little bit like Charlie Bucket opening the one Wonka bar my parents could afford, hoping to see a flash of gold but knowing the odds were against me.
I looked down at the tag and my heart sank. It was from my great-aunt, but “great” wasn’t a word anyone would ever use to describe her gifts. She was as insane as she was old, and her presents were almost always something that she took directly out of her house and wrapped up. One year she gave me something that no one could identify. Grandpa swore it was an ashtray that he’d seen in her kitchen, but Mom thought it was an old homemade coffee mug. Either way, it was nothing I wanted. It now sat on top of my dresser at home, holding a nickel, a homemade pet rock, and a safety pin.
As I opened this year’s gift, I prayed that it was something I could actually use. I wasn’t disappointed; it was a roll of pennies.
You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. At least I know where to keep them.
The rain was now beating down loudly on the roof of the farmhouse, and I could hear every drop echo, as if they’d all been falling in slow motion. All traces of snow and Christmas magic were now gathered in muddy brown puddles. I wished that I could start the day over again as a completely different person.
“Eddie, Grandma invited us to sleep over!” Mom interrupted my daydream. “We can have a big breakfast in the morning and drive home at lunchtime tomorrow.”
I felt my heart rate quicken. I always loved sleeping over at the farm. Grandpa and I would get into all kinds of trouble once Mom and Grandma were asleep. One time he and I spent two hours mixing up Grandma’s kitchen spices by pouring each of them into a different bottle. Cinnamon became paprika. Parsley became dill. Dill became nutmeg. Nutmeg became rosemary. The next day’s French toast was disgusting, but Grandpa and I laughed through every dill-filled bite that Grandma insisted we take.
The truth was that I really did want to stay over that night. I thought Grandpa might be the only person on earth who could make me forget about the day I’d had. But the twelve-year-old in me also didn’t want to make it too easy on Mom after what she’d put me through. A sweater? Pajamas? A roll of pennies? It was the worst Christmas ever. I turned, gave my mother the best scowl I could muster, and said, “I really don’t feel well. I just want to go home.”
Grandpa looked at me quizzically.
My mother rubbed her forehead. “Eddie, I didn’t sleep much last night, and you know I’ve been working longer shifts at the store. I’m exhausted and don’t feel like driving.” She cocked her head slightly and gave me a wink that spoke volumes. “Please, for me?”
I dug my heels in. “I really just want to get home. I’m sure some of my friends got presents that I’d like to play with.” The look on Mom’s face told me that I’d hit my mark. Grandpa’s eyes narrowed, and I could feel the burn of his stare on the side of my face.
“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Mom responded firmly. “We’re staying. I’m just too tired to drive.”
“It would mean a lot to us to have our two favorite people here for breakfast tomorrow,” my grandmother interjected, trying to restore the peace.
Then Grandpa spoke up, his tone far more serious than I was used to. “I think Eddie’s right. Maybe you two should just head home. After all, Eddie doesn’t feel well.”
I should’ve known that Grandpa would be onto my game. He thought more like a twelve-year-old than I did.
I tried to dig my way out of the mess by thinking one step ahead of him. “Actually, Grandpa, maybe Mom is right. Maybe we should stay. Don’t you have some errands in town I could help out with in the morning?” I looked at Grandpa with a wry smile, waiting for him to reciprocate. He didn’t.
“No, nothing I can’t take care of next week. I really think you guys should head home. I’m sure you can’t wait to play with all your friends’ great presents.”
Checkmate. I looked down, embarrassed and angry.
My mother sighed. “Well, I guess that’s that.” Her eyes revealed both exhaustion and resignation. “Go upstairs and get your stuff packed up, Eddie. I need to talk to Grandma and Grandpa. I’ll call you when I’m ready to go.”
“Sure,” I said, pretending not to be bothered by any of this.
“And put on your bread bags.”
I jogged up the stairs. Punishing my mom had escalated further than I’d planned, and the look in her eyes hurt my heart. I washed over my guilt with anger. Anger at God, life, and, by association, my mother. It’s not my fault, I told myself.
When I reached the bedroom, I took the bread bags out but didn’t put them on. Stupid boots. I threw them onto the floor. What a stinking, lousy, crummy day. I hated Christmas. I just wished it was over. But it wasn’t even close to over—I still had what was sure to be a long, painfully silent drive ahead.
I took off my Christmas sweater and clutched it tightly in my arms as I lay down on the bed. What a gift, I thought sarcastically to myself. What a perfect gift. My eyes began to burn under the weight of my anger. I buried my head under the pillow, hoping that my mother wouldn’t call for me until my tears had dried.
“Eddie,” my mother’s voice rang up the stairs, “it’s time to go.”
I groaned with exhaustion. I reluctantly put on my sweater, then lifted my bag and walked downstairs. Grandma had her arm around my mother’s waist and was giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t forget to call me when you get home, Mary. I don’t want to be up all night worrying.”
For as long as I could remember, my mother would call my grandparents as soon as we returned home from their house. Since long-distance calls were a luxury for us, they had, with Grandpa’s assistance, developed a system. Mom would use the operator to make a person-to-person call and ask for herself. Grandma would answer, claim her daughter had just left, and then hang up, knowing that her daughter had made it home safely. It was a great system…and, as Grandpa always stressed, “It was completely free and almost honest.”
My grandparents went into the kitchen to box up the food we would have eaten together for breakfast. I c
ould hear deliberately muffled conversation.
The stakes had just been raised, and I was going to win this mind game. No matter what it took.
Seven
We were twenty minutes into our drive home before either of us spoke. “You really outdid yourself this time, Eddie.”
I watched a seemingly endless number of farms fade away in the rearview mirror. The clouds marking the edge of a winter storm had squeezed the sun into a sad, pale yellow circle with a gray halo.
“What do you want me to do?” Mom asked, trying to hide her tears.
“I want to have a real life.” The words exploded from my mouth. “Like my friends.” I couldn’t help it. A whole day of pent-up frustration and anger poured out.
“A real life? Eddie, this is the reality of my life. I work four different jobs. I feel like I haven’t slept for two years. I switch hours with people so I can be home with you as much as possible. I can only do so much, Eddie. I’m tired. I’m so tired. And you know what else? Maybe it is time you start being the man you need to grow into, rather than acting like the eight-year-old kid you were.”
I’d never heard my mother talk to me like that before. I looked up just in time to see her discreetly wipe a tear from her eye. When she spoke again, her tone was much softer.
“I know that things have been hard since Dad died. But it’s been hard for both of us. At some point you have to realize that everything happens for a reason. It is up to you to find that reason, learn from it, and let it take you to the place you’re supposed to be—not just where you have ended up.” Mom spoke slowly. “You can either complain about how hard your life is, or you can realize that only you are responsible for it. You get to choose: Am I going to be happy or miserable? And nothing—not a sweater, and certainly not a bike—will ever change that.”
Something deep inside of me wanted to apologize and beg for my mother’s forgiveness. Instead, I just sat there.
The day’s steady rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the mist kicked up by the tires made it hard to see anything out the side window. Looking straight ahead was out of the question—Mom’s eyes might be waiting in the mirror for another lecture—so I rolled my window down halfway and prayed we would just get home fast.
After a few minutes Grandma’s church came into view through the mist. I say “Grandma’s church” because she was, by far, the most religious person in the family. Mom was in second place, but there was really no contest after that; Grandpa and I were tied for last.
When I was a little kid, I used to get dressed up and go to church with Mom every Sunday. I hated it. She made me sit up straight and “listen” for a whole hour. Dad never came with us; he usually just stayed at home or went golfing instead. He used to say he was a big believer in all of the Ten Commandments, especially the one that mandated “rest on the Sabbath.” Mom often reminded him that golf was probably not what the Lord had in mind, but Dad would just laugh and say, “God doesn’t take attendance on Sunday.” A part of me thought he was just saying that to make himself feel better about not going with us, but when I saw the way Dad treated others and cared for those in need, I understood what he really meant: God takes attendance every day.
During the summer, when I’d stay over at my grandparents’ house a lot, we would go to Grandma’s church every Sunday. It was the only time I ever actually looked forward to going, because Grandpa and I used to make up games to pass the time. We came up with a whole bunch of them over the years, but my favorite was a game we called Stand for God. (Grandpa originally tried to call it Jump for Jesus, but even he knew that was over the line, so we settled on the safer name.)
The rules were simple: Each time the service called for the congregation to sit, stand, kneel, or sing, you had to be first. It probably sounds easy, but to win you had to guess really early. If you guessed wrong, you not only lost but you also looked like an idiot—and got a full dose of Grandma’s evil eye. Now that I think back, it’s pretty obvious where Mom learned her uncanny ability to lecture with her eyes.
The more we played Stand for God, the better Grandpa and I got at it, and the earlier you had to guess if you wanted to win. One time Grandpa started singing “On Eagle’s Wings” so early that Father Sullivan actually stopped reading the scripture and glared at him from the pulpit. Not coincidentally, that was also the last time Grandpa and I ever got to sit next to each other.
After Grandma started sitting between us, the masses seemed to take forever, but, over time, something strange began to happen: I started to actually enjoy them. I think part of it was that I felt closest to Dad when I was there. It’s hard to describe, but there were times when I’d feel him sitting right there next to me. Sometimes I even heard his horrible voice singing right along with mine.
As I looked out the back windshield, Grandma’s church, the place where I felt the most connected to my father, was now just a dot in the fog. I thought how strange it was that a person sitting just two feet away from me felt more distant than someone who wasn’t even alive.
With the church now beyond the horizon, I turned back around and risked a quick glance up front. Mom’s eyes were waiting for me in the mirror—but they weren’t angry or hurt anymore, they were just tired. I knew that she was giving me an opening to apologize and all would be forgotten. But I still wasn’t ready. I was tired too.
About ten minutes later, I fell asleep.
So did Mom.
I woke to the ticking sound the Ford’s engine made while it cooled. I looked up and saw the seat I’d just been sitting in. A mix of twisted metal and wires came at me from all angles, like angry, bony fingers. Shredded fabric from Mom’s headrest hung down. Something on the dashboard was blinking and lighting up a tiny spot on the floor every few seconds.
A pair of strong, weathered hands reached in and pulled me through the partially opened, upside-down back door. I didn’t see the man’s face, but as he held me tight I noticed how filthy his hands were.
“Mom!” I tried to scream but nothing came out of my mouth. I was shivering inside my sweater.
I must have drifted off again, because when I awoke I was on the pavement about twenty yards from the now-burning car. Brilliant red and orange fingers reached up high into the eternal night sky. The heat was overwhelming. I heard the ominous echo of sirens and saw flashing lights reflect off of distant clouds.
I fell asleep again.
I opened my eyes to excruciatingly bright lights. Doctors and nurses buzzed all around, but none of them seemed to be paying much attention to me.
“Where’s my mother?” I screamed. “How’s my mother? I want to see my mother!”
The doctors only answered my questions with another question, just like Grandpa did whenever he was trying to avoid the truth: “How do we get in touch with your father?”
“My father is…dead,” I remember whispering. Then I drifted off to sleep again.
Eight
When I was ten years old my grandparents took me to the annual Puyallup Fair. It was no Disneyland, but after years of roller-skating on a level driveway for thrills, it was a welcome change. Grandma refused to go on any rides—she only liked the shows and the FFA exhibits—and Grandpa wouldn’t go on anything that went in a circle because it made him sick. That didn’t leave very many options; after the petting zoo, bobbing for apples, and a slow scenic train ride (that was still too fast for Grandma), I was ready for something bigger. I was ready for the roller coaster.
“The Coaster Thrill Ride,” as it was officially known, must’ve been named by the engineer who’d built it. After all, what other explanation could there be for the best ride in the park having such a boring, generic name?
Originally built in 1935 out of Douglas fir, the Coaster Thrill Ride wasn’t the biggest or fastest coaster in the country, but it still looked plenty scary to me. It had been destroyed by fire in the 1950s before being rebuilt, again out of wood, and it now towered over the fair as a beacon for thrill seekers everywhere.
> As Grandpa and I stood in line, we wondered out loud which train car we’d get: Or’nry Orange, Blaz’n Blue, or Ol’ Yeller. Grandpa talked a big game the whole time we waited. “Are you sure about this, Eddie?” he asked me. “It’s a fifty-foot drop and hits over 50 miles an hour. I can handle it. Can you?”
“Sure,” I told him, though truthfully I was anything but sure.
After finally making it to the station, we stepped into our car and lowered the safety bar across our laps. I glanced up at Grandpa one last time and swore I caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes.
The unmistakable clicking of the old wooden coaster’s pull chain engaged, and soon we were heading up the first big hill. Neither Grandpa nor I said a word.
The view from the top was amazing. The car briefly paused, as if caught in gravity’s web, and I swore I saw Grandma’s church in the distance, its steeple clock reflecting the sun. I didn’t have a chance to look for long. We crested the hill, picked up speed, and hurtled back toward the ground, the wooden track shaking violently beneath us. Grandpa squeezed my hand and told me not to be afraid.
I didn’t realize until years later that he was actually holding my hand tighter than I was holding his.
Now, as Grandpa and I stood together at my mother’s wake, he was once again squeezing my hand tight. I didn’t know who was comforting whom, but it was the only thing that kept me from running out the door.
I found out later that Mom had fallen asleep at the wheel. We’d drifted off the road and flipped in a ditch. I didn’t have a scratch on me, but Mom had broken her neck. Doctors and friends kept telling me that she had died instantly, that she hadn’t felt any pain—like that somehow made it all okay, but it didn’t. I wanted my mother back. She wasn’t supposed to die. Not then, not now, and certainly not “instantly.” I never said good-bye, but, more important, I never told her that I was sorry. Now she would never know.
