We have several odd Christmas traditions.
One of my favorite is "The Boot Story." Now, you have to follow me here, it has developed over many years and will be hard to make anyone outside the family understand. I am the youngest of four. The oldest, my sister, Vicki, is 14 years older, my brother is 12 years older, and my closest sister, LaTrelle, is almost 10 years older. For as long as I can remember, after opening presents, people would start grinning while clearing away the boxes and wrapping paper. It was infectious. First one would grin, then someone would notice, then another. Sideways looks and winks would be exchanged, and occasional suppressed giggles would be heard among the younger generation's members. Each one knew it was getting time to hear "The Boot Story."
For the majority of my life, Dad told the boot story. After my kids came along, sometimes others would tell it, but it always starts with the same words. "Be careful what you throw away." The entire room of people would erupt with laughter and amused groans, and Dad would look hurt (with a twinkle in his eye.) He would go on to recount the story of the year Vicki was six and Mom and Dad had splurged and bought her a pair of majorette boots. She had seen them in a store and had talked of nothing else for months. They were white leather, mid-calf height, with one large silky white tassel hanging from the front of each one. They had spent more than they were worth, and definitely more than Mom and Dad could reasonably afford, but they wanted Vicki to have them, so they managed to make the purchase. Vicki was thrilled, of course, and wore them for a bit before Mom told her to take them off so they didn't get scuffed. While picking up and discarding the wrapping paper, boxes, and other holiday trash, one of the coveted boots was thrown away.
It must have been literally traumatic for my Dad, because every year afterward, when clean-up was in progress, he thought about that boot and had to remind us all not to make that costly mistake. As the years went by, we came to anticipate and enjoy the inevitable telling of "The Boot Story" and it became the family joke. Even Dad came to enjoy playing his part and would put different spins on it from time to time. Sometimes he would pretend to ignore the anticipation until someone else told the story. Sometimes he would tell it as we started opening gifts. When grand kids came along, they caught on after a year or so. Friends and other relatives knew the tradition if they had ever spent a Christmas with us. Regardless of when, how, or by whom, Christmas would not be complete, without the telling of "The Boot Story."
