The Carol of the Boxes

When I was growing up, at least during my younger years in Texas, the Foley's box was always the mark of a most excellent gift.

Christmas Eve always happened at my paternal grandmother's apartment. The grownups would sit at the dinette, smoking, drinking Wild Turkey, and gossiping about whichever uncle and his family who were on the outs that year. The honor always passed between my uncles Bill and Charles. One of them would be there with his wife and kids, the other, I always imagined, was at home sulking, hiding in his bedroom while his wife and kids sat glumly before the tree wishing they were with the rest of us.

As an adult, I still don't know the stories behind those years. But no matter. Regardless which uncle and family were present, there was always the ceremonious retreat to the bedroom. We younger kids were never invited, but in the later years, one of my older cousins was occasionally included.

What would happen is this: after enough cigarettes, Wild Turkey and gossip, my grandma would choose a co-conspirator (one of the wives or one of those female cousins), and after an interminably long time in the bedroom, out they would come. Boxes would be stacked higher than their heads, and their knees would sometimes buckle under the weight of bows, paper and ribbons.

The boxes would be distributed under the tree, and each of us children would wait, breathless, for the one with our name on it to be handed over. Was it the big one back in the corner? Or a tiny one that we couldn't quite see but that might, just might, have a birthstone ring in it?

The first gift was always given to one of the wives. She would carefully remove the ribbon, setting it aside for later, and gently slit the edge of the tape with one long, polished nail revealing, underneath the wrapping, a coveted Foley's box. An "oooh" would rise up from the room, followed by a collective murmur of "Foley's box." Whatever was inside, we knew, was going to be good.

Like most regional departments stores, Foley's has been consumed by Macy's. Perhaps a Macy's box would be received with the same kind of reverence, but I doubt it. Like so many other of our traditions--like cigarettes and Wild Turkey for our Christmas Eve celebration--it has changed as our family has grown and spread out. My sister is in Texas, my brother is in Missouri, I'm here in New York. But no matter where we are, or how we're spending the holiday, we will call each other and at some point during the conversation, one of us will say with just a hint of breathless reverence "remember the Foley's boxes?" The other will nod, though the nod won't be seen, and we'll be kids again, for the briefest of moments.

Whether you celebrate the Solstice, the Christ Mass, or another of the holy days that fill the season, here's wishing peace, happiness, and a Foley's box of your very own to you and yours.