The year was 1975, I was in the 8th grade and Christmas was coming.  I had been babysitting, making pretty decent money between the two families who fought for my services since I was 10.  It was this year that I decided I was going to buy my dad a really nice Christmas present.

My Dad was a lineman for Commonwealth Edison, the Chicago based power company and for all the years I could remember up until this particular year, my Dad worked.  He would drop in at the Rouses’ Christmas Eve dinner in his CarHart coveralls and grab some dinner (if there wasn’t a storm going on) and work all night.  On Christmas morning, he would park his truck in our driveway within eyeshot through the window so he could see the orange light on the dashboard.   If the light shone, it meant he had a call on the radio.  This was high technology in 1975.

This year, however, my dad was going to be home because on December 26th, we were packing up our Pop Up Camper, throwing suitcases on the roof rack of the 1972 Ford Station Wagon – the kind with the fake wood paneling on the sides – and heading off the Florida for a 2 week vacation.  We were even taking Neal’s girlfriend Robin with us.

Christmas Eve we went to the Rouse’s house for the Christmas Eve dinner party.  As always, a great time was had by all and we came home to ready ourselves for Christmas morning and leaving on vacation the next day.

It was Christmas morning.  I was so excited to give my Dad his gift.  My Dad was a HUGE fishing fan.  He and my mother went fishing every year I can remember with my Aunt Marg, her daughter Marylou and Marylou’s husband Kent.  In addition to that, my dad would take the boys almost every summer for a long weekend or a week.  His ultimate favorite fish to catch was a Northern or a Walleye.  Not for the meat, so much as the fight.  His eyes would sparkle when he would talk about landing a Northern.  With this in mind, I had gotten myself up to Montgomery Wards and bought him the best Filet Knife I could afford.  It was the perfect size, with a carved leather sheath and a pearled handle.

It was pretty early in the morning as we were opening gifts.  I am pretty sure we had to wake my dad up so we could start opening, so he was a little groggy.  When he got to my gift, I sat on the edge of the couch to watch.  He opened the package and saw what it was.  He looked closely at the sheath, admiring the carving in the leather, then he unsnapped the strap around the handle, grabbed the sheath and pulled the knife out.  As he did, he sliced open the palm of his hand…….

There was blood everywhere!  He ran into the bathroom, put his hand under the water and tried to stop the bleeding.  After some time, he finally tore up a t-shirt and wrapped it around his hand.  He held it that way until we finished unwrapping gifts, then drove up to the hospital for stitched.   I don’t know how many stitches he received, but I do know it was a lot – and in such an unfortunate part of his hand.

I felt horrible.  Here we were leaving for vacation the next day down to Florida where my Dad could do all kinds of fishing.  We went deep sea fishing, snorkeling, to the beach and he couldn’t participate in any of it because of the wound on his hand.   All that driving, hand-cranking the pop-up camper up and down, building fires at the campgrounds.  I could only imagine how awful it was for my dad.

I have told this story of our trip to Florida a million times.  Every time I told it, I would include the part of ruining my dads vacation with my gift of a filet knife.

Fast Forward to 1994.  My mother had passed away.  All my sister in laws and myself went up to my Dad’s to help him go through some of my mom’s things.   We stayed the night and went out to my parent’s favorite Pizza place for dinner.  As we were sitting there talking and sharing stories, this one came up.  Only this time, it was my Dad telling the story.  As he began, he started talking about the Christmas Eve party at the Rouses’ and how he had too much to drink and how hung over he was the next morning……..and how being hung over is what caused him to draw the filet knife from the sheath wrong and slice open his hand.

It took me a few minutes to figure out what he was saying.  I’m pretty sure I was in shock at what I heard.  “WHAT???”  I said. ” You were HUNG OVER??? ”  “All these years I thought it was my fault!”  I felt redeemed.

We all had a good laugh and chalked that one up to another fun filled evening at the Rouses and my families rotten communication skills.

I still tell that story.  Its a fond, crazy memory and one day my kids will be telling it as well.  My family may not be the best communicators, but we sure make for some good stories.

Merry Christmas!