The Christmas Gift

Yet Another Tale of the Magic That Accompanies the Yule Tide Season

By Jeffry L’H. Tank

During the past several years as the Holiday season approaches I have made a point of taking a trip along skyline drive to enjoy the first of winters wonders as the temperature drops and the forests many inhabitants settle down for their long winters rest among the trees, rocks and frost covered earth. The barren trees, icefalls and other signs of winters approach helps to remind me of the passing seasons. As I gaze down upon the valley floor from the peaks and overlooks along the drive it brings with it a certain peace of mind and tranquility of soul that I can but find among those ancient rocks built up eons ago. As I watch the smoke rise from the chimneys of the many homes scattered amongst the fields lining the Shenandoah River my thoughts turn once more to all the bright faces of children eagerly anticipating the rush downstairs early Christmas morning to a tree strung with lights and popcorn surrounded by an array of brightly colored packages.

Thus it was that one chilly November day found me once more cruising the first south bound leg of Skyline Drive on my yearly winter sabbatical to contemplate the past year and to gaze forward into the next. As before, toward the end of the ride I stopped at my favorite overlook that I had named Philosophers Rock some years ago and of which I have written before.

After parking my machine, I walked down the short path to the rock outcropping and settled in for a period of contemplation while I enjoyed the view of the valley that stretched out below me. As I sat there I heard someone approach down the path and a moment later a young boy, perhaps 12 years of age, appeared around the corner of the large rock to my left. When he spied my helmet and leather jacket he enquired as to whether that was my motorcycle parked back at the turn off just up the path. I informed him that indeed it was mine, at which point he eagerly began to fire off numerous questions about it and about riding in general. He seems very knowledgeable on the subject of motorcycles and it was very apparent that he had more than just a passing interest in them. After answering all his questions I inquired as to whether he himself had ever ridden as a passenger or perhaps owned an off road machine of his own. He told me that while he had never driven one he had ridden on the back of his fathers on quite a few occasions and that his father had promised to buy him a dirt bike of his own on the Christmas after he turned 12. Since, as I said, he seemed about that age, I asked if he was perhaps expecting one this Christmas. At this he became suddenly very quite and I sensed he was trying desperately not to burst into tears. When I asked what was the cause of his sudden sadness, when only moments ago he had been so animated with our discussion, he informed me that his father, who had been a reservist, had been called to duty that past spring and had been killed in action in the middle-east only the month before. I quite naturally expressed my deepest sympathy for his loss, noting that I too had lost my father, though it was now many years ago, yet still understood all to well his pain at such a grievous loss.

For a while after that we simply sat in silence, each deep within our own thoughts and memories of that figure that plays such an important role in any man’s or boy’s life. Soon though it was time to go; me to ride home as the sun began it slow earthward descent and my young companion of the past hour to return to his mother’s car, as we could hear her calling him to return to the parking area for the ride home.

When we arrived back at the parking area I introduced myself to his mother and we chatted for a bit about her son and I again expressed my sympathy for the family’s loss. I enquired as to whether she thought she would be able to honor the promise given to my young friend by his father. At this she expressed some doubt as its fruition, not so such because of finances or concerns for his safety, but rather her lack of any knowledge on the subject of “motor scooters”, as she called them, and what would be appropriate for someone of his age. At that I let her know that I would quite happy to lend any assistance in that area as I had been riding for quite some number of years and had owned several off road machines myself. So we exchanged phone numbers and addresses, at which point I discovered they lived on one of the larger farms in the valley visible from where I had been sitting moments ago. When my young acquaintance heard this news, his mood once more brightened, and as he and his mother returned to their car, I could hear him chatting excitedly with his sister, who had remained with their mother while he and I had been sitting on the rock outcrop.

I must admit my mood was also lifted by the thought of working with and helping this young boy enter into the world of motorcycling, so I decided to return to the rock outcrop to enjoy a few more minutes of solitude before departing. As I was settling myself once again on the rock, I noticed a small metal military insignia that I was quite sure had not been there when I had first arrived. I picked it up assuming that it must have been left accidentally by the boy I had been talking with before, having perhaps fallen out of his pocket while we chatted. In either case I was quite sure he would soon notice its loss and would be keen for its return. I therefore made sure it was securely placed within one of my inside jacket pockets so I could return it next time we met. I was indeed glad that I had his phone number and address so I could let him know it was safe and I would return it soon. Now once again it was time to depart, yet again I waited a moment to watch a late afternoon mist rising from the valley floor and come tumbling along the tops of the trees below me and sifting between the trunks of the barren trees as it drifted up following the contours of the mountain. As I watched it began to encompass the area where I stood. Just as it arrived there appeared, quite suddenly, a gentleman to my immediate right whom I had not heard approach, being intent as I was on following the mist’s progress up the mountainside. He stood there looking at me as if about to speak, yet each time it appeared that he was about do to so he paused as if uncertain what to say, so my gaze would return to the rising mist. Just as the thickest part of it enveloped us he uttered a single phrase, saying simply “Thank You”, then both he and mist were gone. It was as if he had simply merged with it rather than being enveloped by it and I found myself once more alone on the mountainside with his words fading in my ears. It took several moments for the significance of his appearance, and equally unusual disappearance, to fully dawn on me, but then I realized whom this person must have been, his military uniform providing the most noteworthy clue.
After a moment more I walked back up to the parking area, and was soon riding my machine back down Skyline Drive to Rt. 211 and then home.

When I returned home I called my young acquaintance from the mountaintop and made arrangements to come visit him soon after the Christmas season. While I had first thought to tell him of the insignia I had found on the rock where we had sat, I decided that perhaps he had not dropped it after all, but rather it had been left by my finial companion of that afternoon and that I was meant to give it to my young companion the next time we met, so I decided to wait till that time arrived. I also determined relate to him the story of his father’s visitation, for surely it could have been no other, and how thus I had come in possession of this small token.

Thus it was that toward the end of December a few days after Christmas, I called again to enquire if they would be home and ensure that I would not be intruding on any plans. Since they said I would more welcome to come by, I headed out to Luray to spend some time visiting with my young friends family and to show him and his mother several adds I had found in the local papers for used dirt bikes that I felt would be good beginner motorcycles and that we might perhaps have a chance to investigate as they were both located near his place of residence.

Being a lovely crisp day I took my own machine and enjoyed a lovely ride up and over the Blue Ridge under a bright winter-day sky. As I arrived at the house and was pulling into the main drive, my young friend came bounding out of the front door and ran up to where I was parking my machine. I barely had enough time to deploy the side stand and turn off the motor before he was frantically tugging at my arm, demanding my undivided attention and insisting I accompany him around back to the barn see something “totally awesome”. Since anything my young friend considered “totally awesome” was to me equally worthy of my immediate attention, off we went around back, with him leading the way and chatting incessantly all the while about the wonderful present that had awaited him on Christmas morning. As we approached the barn he let go of my arm and ran ahead to lift the cross bar and throw open the doors of the structure. Sitting there just inside, but parked carefully out of harms way and covered by a large tarp, was the obvious outline of a motorcycle. My young friend had the cover off in flash and there sat a brand new enduro motorcycle rather than any sort of used machine and one which seemed to be just the right size for a young boy of 12! So it would seem his mother had been able to find one without my assistance, though I suspected that she had had quite a bit of “coaching” on the part of her son.

As he ran excitedly around and around the machine, pointing out all its features and explaining its controls, as if I was the one new to these machines, I informed him that indeed it was one handsome machine and made sure to enthusiastically inject the proper amounts of “Ohs” and “Ahs” at all the right places! It was quite evident that he had been pouring over the manual and related material that had come with the machine and had familiarized himself with all the minutia of its operation. All that was left now was to for him to take it out on its maiden voyage, something I’m sure he was simply dieing to do. First though we would need to get him the appropriate riding gear so I told him it would be my pleasure to take him shopping and make sure that he was properly outfitted. While we were reviewing the machines many functional components his mother had joined us in the barn, smiling almost as broadly as her son.

After he had finished going over every detail of the machine and while the young man was taking a momentary verbal break, she suggested we return to the house for something warm to drink. So my friend and I carefully covered the machine once more and proceeded inside to a warm fire blazing in the kitchen hearth. As his mother was preparing some hot cocoa for him and his sister, and coffee for us I enquired as to who had helped with purchase of the machine now parked in the barn, since she stated before that she was at a complete loss when it come to such things as these. She paused for a moment then looked at her son sitting across from her at the kitchen table. He seemed instinctively to know that she was somewhat at a loss for words to describe the events of that Christmas morning and so proceeded to tell the tale in his own words.

As would be expected in any household with youngsters, both he and his sister, some 2 years his junior had woken up early Christmas morning and rushed down stairs to investigate what Santa had left under the tree. As he was going into the kitchen to start some water boiling to make cocoa for him and his sister and coffee for Mom ( “so she would hurry up and come down so everyone could open up presents” ), he noticed the sun glinting off something shinny just outside the kitchen door. Going over and lifting the curtain, he saw the very machine now lovingly parked and covered in the barn, sitting just beyond the back stoop! He had, of course, rushed upstairs and jumping into his mother’s bed and covered her face with kisses shouting “Oh! Thank You, Thank You, Thank You” over and over again. His mother, being still somewhat sleepy headed, had at first tried in vain to calm him, having as yet, no idea what he was so excited about. When he finally took a breath and was calm enough to answer her enquires she discovered the cause of his excitement. It was quickly becoming apparent to me that she had no idea how the machine had come to arrive in the back yard nor had she been responsible for its purchase!

At this point she took up the tale explaining that indeed she had not the faintest clue how the machine had come to be parked in the yard Christmas morning and related how she had inquired of all her friends and relatives in the county if they were in some way responsible. She even drove over and talked to the pastor of her congregation, thinking that perhaps he had taken a collection to buy the machine for her son, since her son had talked about motorcycles and his fathers promise to everyone and anyone in the community ever since his father had told him, well over a year prior. Yet no matter whom she asked, not one single person seemed to have the slightest idea how the machine had come to be there.

Having heard the story of this second Christmas miracle I decided to share the first one that I had been a party to and reaching into my pocket, I removed the insignia I had “found” on the mountain top the previous month and carefully unwrapping it, placed it on the table in front of my young friend and told him that it had given to me by his father so that I could present it to him now. So having fulfilled my obligation to both father and son. I then went on to relate the story of how I had come in to possession of this emblem and when I had finished my tale my young friend reached out, with a slightly trembling hand pinned the emblem onto his collar. All the while as I related my tale I sensed that though the young man believed every word, with an openness and willingness to accept the impossible that only the young are truly capable of while we, as adults, are taught to question and disbelieve such stories as the one I had just related, his mother could not arrive at the same level of acceptance as her son. None the less, she could see the wonder and belief in her son’s eyes and she could not, and indeed would not, do or say anything that could in any manner disway him from that belief in his father, so she said naught and merely gazed with an ever greater love upon his young radiant face.

After I finished my tale, we each sat silent with our thoughts for a few moments till his younger sister came bounding into the room proudly displaying the latest outfit she had dressed one of her many dolls in and the mood again become joyous and we sat chatting away the afternoon.

Next weekend I returned and took my young friend out to be properly outfitted for riding and for the next several months I returned as often as possible to spend time teaching him to ride and spend time with my “adopted” family. On one such occasion as I sat in the kitchen with his mother she confessed to me that she had at first found my story of how I found the emblem rather hard to believe but had held her tongue out of love for her son. I informed her that I had noticed the restraint she had shown and respected her all the more because of it, but reiterated that my tale was no more a fabrication than the motorcycle on which her son was at this moment riding around the farm. It was then that she told me of third and final miracle of that Christmas season.

She spoke of how every night when her son would prepare for bed he would remove his father’s insignia from where it was always pinned on his collar, and after polishing it carefully he would place it in front of his father’s picture that sat on the mantel. Then every morning he would take it down and pin it once more to his collar where it would remain throughout the day. He did this without fail, no matter how rushed he might be; he always took a moment to remember the emblem. While this, in and of itself might be considered a minor miracle since young boys are prone to forgetfulness in many ways, the real miracle were the changes she felt had taken place in the picture itself. When the picture was taken shortly after the father had been reactivated from reserve status and sent overseas, his countenance had an all too apparent sadness to it and from his expression it was all to obvious that he greatly missed his family, and while he knew where his greater duty lay, his heart remained at home with his family. She admitted that she had cried the first time she had seen the picture when she had received it, yet it spoke volumes about his love of those left behind and she therefore had grown ever more fond of it for that very reason. Yet over the past months as each day her son replaced the emblem at night and took it down in the morning without fail, she could swear that there had been a slow yet constant change in that once sad face. Indeed she felt certain there was now a certain sparkle in his eye and just the hint of a smile touched the corners of the once down-turned mouth. So now she too had come to believe the story of how that the insignia had come into my possession and the pain of loss was perhaps just a bit less bitter and her life a bit brighter and for that she wished to thank me.

And thus another Christmas tale of Miracles, Motorcycles and Mountain Vistas comes to a close, except to add that I often return to that farm just outside the quiet town of Luray to spend many a pleasant hour among its fields and with my young friend and his family.

And again as I have endeavored in the past to assure you, my readers, that as wondrous as these tales may be I had no hand in their manufacture and as much as I could enjoy taking credit for the wonders that have befallen me; or to those that may think that I am merely relating yet another tall tale or fantasy arising from my overly active imagination, I must once again protest. For I am only the messenger, my involvement entirely coincidental, and my pen merely the instrument by which I try to relate how my life has been touched and my days blessed by all those strange events that seem to seek me out on my yearly pre-Christmas rides along the Blue Ridge mountains. Rides that it seems I am destined to take along those misty mountains that lend their character to, and provide the backdrop for a magical road known as Skyline Drive.

© Jeffry L’H. Tank

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