Note: Last night I gave a speech at Toastmaster's. I used one of my favorite blog posts, added a section in the beginning and one at the end to make it applicable to Christmas. Some of you may recognize the majority of the body. Think of it as an ice cream sandwich. The ice cream is the same, but there are two new cookies. In any case, I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!
Christmas is coming up, and like many of you I am preparing
by buying, wrapping, and putting presents under the tree. Of course, I am looking forward to
giving and receiving these presents as well, but let me ask you something. Quick—do you remember the gifts you got
last year?
Chances are you don’t
remember too many of them. Most of the time, those gifts of material objects
are transitory. In this season, of
gift giving, I’d like to expand the concept of giving a little and think about
gifts of the spirit, the gifts that we receive from others that live within us
and stay with us our entire lives.
When I was about eight
years old, I announced to my dad one evening that I was going to learn to milk
cows. We had about 12 milk cows at the time and my father milked them by hand
every night and every morning. My dad just smiled at my suggestion that I would
be able to help him once I learned.
So, determined to do
this, I followed him out to the milk barn, which was a small, low building back
of the big barn. The path to the barn was made up of large stones,
strategically placed in the dirt and manure that made up the lot. They were
placed for my father's long stride, so I had to jump from stone to stone to get
the barn. I got there just as my dad opened the door and called the cows in.
They were lumbering
giants, these cows. They were beautiful in the way they responded to my dad's
voice, their big, trusting liquid eyes watching him as they all went to their
spots and stood, placing their heads in the v-shaped grips on the walls, their
tails toward the door.
I stood, my back to the wall, and looked down the line
at these massive animals. The smallness of the barn and their close quarters
with one another only emphasized their enormity. Their square rear ends were
now still, their tails periodically swinging to the loud country music my dad
always had on the radio in the barn.
Sitting on his T-shaped
stool, my dad began milking the first cow, humming to the radio. He stopped
before the first bucket was full and poured the warm, foamy contents into a
large pan that sat at one end of the barn. Instantly, about ten barn cats
showed up to lap up the milk. These feral beauties I had never been able to get
close to, were now within arm's length and they were letting my father pet
them.
My head swam with happiness. It was the warm summer evening, and I was
filled with bliss, being in the barn with the cows, the cats, but most of all
being with my dad, in his domain, watching the way he sang, and worked. The tension
he sometimes carried while he was in the house seemed to slip off his shoulders
here and he was totally at ease and best of all, I was with him.
It was while I was in
this blissful state that I noticed with great interest that the cow directly in
front of me had raised its tail and I could see its crusty anus, twisting and
turning like the shutter on a rusty camera.
I was transfixed there by this
sight: it was if it was a real
camera and I had to remain still until the picture was taken.
I heard my dad's
voice, "I wouldn't stand behind that one if I were you" but still I
didn't move. I was memorized, hypnotized, transfixed. I heard my father's voice
again, this time more urgent,
"That one's sick. You need to move."
Then it happened: the
camera shutter opened, my eyes grew wide and my mouth opened in surprise, as
the projectile diarrhea shot directly towards me. I felt the warmth coat my
entire body and I sputtered as I stood, draped, covered, cloaked in runny light
brown goo. I immediately started crying. (Not a good idea.) Each gasp
brought a new assault to my tongue and throat.
"Oh. Oh," my
dad said calmly as he came my way.
That's all he said as he surveyed the
situation. There was no scolding, no admonishment, no kidding, no teasing.
All
he did was put down the bucket of milk he was carrying, gently take my hand,
and helped me over the large stones, back through the big barn, and down the
path to the house. I could barely see out of the small holes I had managed to
make around my eyes.
The evening was a warm one and I could feel the hardening
of the crust on my skin. I felt low. I felt... well, like one does when one is
covered in cow poop, but I also felt my hand in my father's hand and knew at
least I was headed in the right direction.
I remember at least one
sister screamed when she saw me and I remember the (understandable) shrinking
back (I did look like a walking Snicker's bar, quickly turning into a Crunch bar) and then some shouts for my mom.
She came out of the house, took my hand from my father and led me to the bathroom
to get cleaned up. I felt remarkably clean and good after that bath though I
would continue to find residue of the adventure in my ears and scalp for weeks.
I received a great gift
from my father that day.
He gave
me this lesson: there are times in life when we all feel just the way I did
that day and the greatest gift we can receive is for someone to quietly, and
without negativity, put down the work he or she is doing, take us by the hands,
help us maneuver our way over the big stones in our lives, and gently guide us
back home to get cleaned up.
Sometimes in life we are
the ones who need the help and sometimes we are the ones who offer the hand. In
the end, both situations are gifts.
So, this Christmas, I’ll
be grateful for the presents under the tree. Heck, I’ll probably be the first one there Christmas morning, ready
to rip through that shiny paper and find out what’s in that package.
I’ll thank those who thought of me, but
amid all of that hustle and bustle, I’ll find some time to be grateful for the
gifts of kindness and dignity from those who showed me how to be a better human
being.
Those are gifts that we keep with us our whole lives and if we are lucky, they are gifts that we can pass on to others.