You Know What They Say About Small Packages

Packing two overtired kids and a trunk load of presents into the car, my parents made the rounds to our grandmothers’ houses every Christmas Eve. The car radio set to a station that chronicled Santa’s journey giving updates as to his current whereabouts.

Our first stop was perennially the “old” Lithuanian neighborhood to drop off gifts for my great grandma and great aunts. Shortly after, we'd be turning right at the Baby Doll Polka Club just behind Midway Airport and our car would glide to the curb in front of Grandma Genny's house in Chicago. 

The big picture window framed her slight body, which was aglow in lights as she hung ornaments on her tree by herself. As a child, I always wondered why grandma never spent Christmas Eve with her mother and unmarried sisters.

Obligatory hugs and kisses traded, my brother and I sat expectantly on her plastic covered couch to patiently wait for “present time”. Once the grown ups settled into living room chairs with their beverages, our job was to distribute boxes as excitement bubbled over. 

Grandma Genny gave the best gifts. Covered with sparkling foil paper and candy, a fun toy or game from Woolworths was always inside. She didn’t have much but she gave thoughtfully.

Seeing my name on a box I thought was far too small, my nine year old heart sank. Eyes immediately shifting to my brother’s gift, gigantic in my opinion, sizing it up against mine. 

My tear-rimmed eyes found Grandma Genny’s and she patted the seat next to her on the couch.

“Good things come in smaller packages.” She whispered in my ear.

It's hard to believe that when you're nine.

“What order should we open presents this year, Grandma?” asked my brother.

“Why don’t we go youngest to oldest? Jimmy, you go first.” Grandma squeezed my hand.

Like a Tasmanian devil, my brother tore threw his larger than life package ripping heavy gauge tape to get inside. Screaming with joy, he spilled out 1,000 green army men and a plastic camouflaged tank from a nondescript box.

I looked to Grandma for reassurance, “Your turn, honey.”

Slowly unwrapping her gift, my eyes became saucers as I unveiled a white transistor radio for my bedroom. Ecstatic, I threw my arms around my Grandma Genny’s neck in thanks.

She was perfectly right. My small gift was far better to me than any big box of plastic soldiers. My brother was lining up army men and attacking them with pillows while she helped me tune into Santa’s journey.

The following year, as was tradition, my parents packed up for the same road trip around Chicagoland. This time, as my brother opened his extremely large box, I smiled knowingly at Grandma Genny.

My brother received a case of his favorite black olives.

And I opened a beautiful jewelry box.

Never again did I contemplate or compare the size of a present. I learned to trust the giver.