Note from mural: I know I've been terrible about writing, but forgive me. Read this little story (twochapters so I can be more organized.) and enjoy. Nice reviews are always, well, nice. Have a lovely holiday season everybody!
3 mural

Christmas Memory

Sara
As I sit down on the breakroom couch, Sara hands me a gift, wrapped in light blue paper with a silver bow. I never realized Sara had a clue about color coordination.
"Thanks."
"Open it." She is excited. It must mean something to her, so I open it, slow and deliberate. It is a piano book, the entire Nutcracker's Suite. I vaguely remember mentioning to her about only having the Overture piece. And I remember even less the day I told her I played piano.
I also remember another time, years away from here, though I am not that old. I remember Christmas, 1985. I was 10.

We are all sitting around the Christmas tree: me, my older sister Nicky, my mom, and my father. This is our year. This is the year my father swore we'd spend Christmas as a family, not as an extended family. The Sanders clan has congregated this year at Aunt Josie's house, eating her world famous Christmas pie, which I have always been sure is just a Sara Lee creation. I swear I found the box in the trash can the year before.
My sister hands me a gift. She is 13, old enough to babysit and buy us all something. I rip open this gift because I am 10 and impatient. It is a beginner's piano book. My parents have decided that I can start to take lessons, but had neglected to buy me a book. Thinking back on it now, I suppose I know why they did it. However, it was a big deal to Nicky and I can now look back and see her eyes, filled with anticipation. I look at the book and think about just how smart my sister is. I mean, why didn't mom and dad think of this? I hug my sister. We do not talk, we do not make eye contact. I threw a pancake at her during breakfast and she still has syrup in her hair. But she bought me a present and she deserves a hug. I actually did thank her the next year, when I had gotten much better and the piano and she got me another book. Ever since then, she has gotten me a piano book and every year I thank her for the first.

"I remember you saying you only had the Overture, so I got this when I saw it at Tower." I look down at the shine of the book and see my reflection. I don't look as thankful as I feel, so I hug Sara. Sara is not as huggable as Nicky, but I do it anyway.
"I love it. I'm going to play it as soon as I get home."
The next day I bring Sara a vegetarian cookbook from my book shelf. It is old and has pages folded, marked, stained, and stuck together, but she loves it anyway.

Nick
Nick is a man. Or so he likes to think. When Nick buys gifts, they are very "manly" gifts. This means he has no idea what you like and they usually consist of a gift card to Target or a restaurant. Sensible, but not insulting. Except for the year he got Catherine a gift card to Michaels.
Anyway, he comes into the DNA lab, about a week before Christmas and says to me, "I got you a present. Here." He throws what is obviously a shottily wrapped CD next to me and walks out, no time for thank yous or anything. I open the present, a harder task than one might think as it is covered with more tape than is possible to buy, and look at it closely. It is a Beatles CD. It is simple and easy, but it is not a gift card to Wendy's, which is what I got last year. I sit in my chair and put in the CD. Then I remember a Christmas that was not too long ago.

I was back home, visiting friends and family. I stopped by my mother's grave on my own and then headed back home. It was three years ago this Christmas that I was nearly hit while crossing the street by a drunk man. Luck for him I was faster and smarter and ran back across, as that was closer. He proceeds to crash into the ditch opposite me and then stumble out into the chill of the air, Beatle music blasting in his car. I walk over, treading carefully as he could be of the violent type. I call out, "Hello?"
"Eh?" He jerks around toward me and then sits on the ground. Okay, he's only the strange drunk type. He begins to sing Christmas carols and asks me to join him. I decline and ask if I could help in some way, call a friend, drive him home, get his car our of the ditch? No, he just wants me to sing songs with him. So I sit down next to him and we begin to softly croon Blue Christmas, then Jingle Bells, then Deck the Halls. We are half way through O Tanenbaum, when a police officer Pulls up. I know this guy. His name is James C. Calhoun and he is big and mucular. Friends call him Thick. I am not a friend. I call him Officer Calhoun.
"Evening Officer Calhoun."
"Thick," says the drunk man, who's name is Roger.
"Are the two of you intoxicated tonight?" Very blunt adn to the point. Figures.
"I'm not, but Roger here is. However, we were just enjoying a bit of the night air and conjuring up some Holiday spirit. I was actually-"
"Save it Sanders." He surveys the scene. "Look, just get his car our of the ditch and take this bum home, alright?"
"Yes sir." Thick gets back into his car and peels off, spewing water from the road all over me and Roger. I am pissed. Roger was hot and now he's cool again. He's happy. Figures.
"Alright then. I'll just be goin'..."
"No, I'll drive." We (I) manage to get the car out of the ditch and then to his house. As I prepare to get out and help him, he pulls on my sleeve.
"Here, take this." It is a Beatles CD. I can't take I say. It's not mine. No, he insists. So I take the CD and begin the walk home. Roger want to sleep in his car. Fine by me. I hear him belting out Jingle Bell Rock as I move away.

This CD is different than Roger's. But I like them both. Nick comes back in and we talk about his case. I mention the CD.
"I saw it and it seemed very... Greg. You know?" He takes his results and goes to get some coffee. I ponder what "Greg" means.

Catherine
Catherine is an excellent gift buyer. She can even get something Grissom likes. However, every year I stump her. She just can't figure out what I want. Every single year, without fail, I get Catherine all in a fluster as she attempts to buy for me. I tell her not to. I beg with her, pleade with her. One year I sent her an anonymous note, but she insisted on torturing herself.
This year, she is confident. She is ready to give me my gift. She hands over her gift with the satisfaction of one who has won and very long staring contest. Except without the dry eyes.
"Here you go. I have slaved and slaved over what to get and I figured it out.
Catherine bought me a picture frame that Lindsey made It has a picture of Lindseey in it and I magnet. It is for my locker. I assume Catherine finally used the Michaels gift card. As I look at this gift, my younger sister's image floats onto the surface of my mind.

My younger sister, Sara, made me a mirror for Christmas. She had made the frame at a library activity session and had his the thing from me for two weeks. She finally gave it to me, wrapped in mewspaper, on Christmas day. It was messy and tacky, but I absolutely loved it. I still have it, actually. Anyway, she cried when I didn't say anything and then I turned to her quickly and said, "This is awesome." She hugged me until I thought my eyes my pop. No joke.
My younger sister is twelve. When I was sixteen, my mother died and left us this little baby she'd given birth to only months before. I took care of baby Sara until college, then I left her in the unsteady hands of my father. Not the best choice, but my only one. She makes me presents every year and every year I say, "This is awesome."

"This is awesome." She is happy.
"I helped a little. I told her to be careful with the glue gun and to not make a mess on the table. She only got burned once." Catherine walks away, satisfied with her gift.

Warrick
Warrick and I are not what you would call "best friends." Warrick is that guy who thinks I am a loser. I know he does. But he likes me. I am funny, obnoxious, and make him smile sometimes. He thinks I am the most annoying person on the planet, but he puts up with me. Especially when he found out I played piano.
So about three days before Christmas, Warrick come in with this bundle of papers tied with a string.
"Here. I know Sara got you music too, but this is some jazz stuff. I thought you might want to try it."

"Here you go hon. I know you get music from Nicky every year, but this is some of Papa Olaf's sheet music I found upstairs. It's blank. Why don't you write me something? Something soft." Mother was always gentle and quiet. She was tiny and fragile. Her emotions were delicate and she always felt tired. Everything had to be soft around mom. So I wrote her some music. She listened on the couch with her eyes closed as I played, my fingers flowing smoothly along the keys. I was fifteen. She would be dead this time next year. Later on I title the song, "Soft." Just like her.
After I was done, she opened her eyes. She turned to me and said, "That was lovely dear. Wonderful. I love it." But she was tired. So she went to take and nap. But I knew she really did like it, so I perfected it for months. She never did hear the newer version, but I played at the memorial service and everyone agreed it sounded like her voice.

"You like Jazz, right?"
"Of course. It's one of my favorite to play."
"Good." He walked away.

Grissom
This might surprise a lot of people, but Grissom is also a very good gift buyer. However, Grissom knows what to buy me.
Grissom reminds me of my father: stern, quiet, but humorous at times and always interested in his subject. By father was an English professor and loved books. Grissom did not know this until he saw be at Borders browing the short stories section. I wanted to buy a copy of "The Metamorphosis" but had decided against it. I needed some milk and only had enough cash for that. So Grissom bought it for me. Not then and there, but later, I suppose. He gave it to me at the Christmas party.
"I knew you wanted it, so I thought I'd pick it up for you. Here." It is not wrapped, there is no note, nothing. Just a book.

"It's just a book dad. You don't need to get so excited."
"Just a book Greg? It's my favorite. That's your namesake right there. Gregor! Didn't you know?"
"Of course dad."
"I absolutely love it. Here, believe it or not, I got you the same thing. Kafka's a funny man, but he writes some great shit, huh?"
I looked at the book. I loves this story, truly. But my dad was too eccentric about it.
Thinking back now, his eccentricy was something I got. His love for books, for words, I got as well. I love to read and write things. He also handed me a blank notebook.
"For the writer in you boy."

"Thanks Grissom."
"I didn't know you liked to read so much?"
"My dad was an English teacher. I have to."
"Merry Christmas Greg."
"Merry Christmas Grissom.

So?... I might add on... add one on gifts Greg gets them... R&R peoples! 3