Dad
I used to say Dad was a terrible gift giver. Exhibit A: He once gave me placemats with big tractors on them. Now, just in case you are wondering, I didn’t grow up on a ranch and I’ve never shown an interest in farm equipment. Carolyn might have chosen a pattern that fit better with my décor, but Dad insisted—and prided himself—on picking out the Christmas gifts for my family. He enjoyed meandering through church bazaars and second-hand stores to see what caught his eye. Another time, when the kids were little and babysitters were a luxury, he asked if I liked dates. Yes! I told him. What a great idea—he could come over, watch the kids…Paul and I could have an evening out with uninterrupted conversation! But no…he meant the fruit. That year, for Christmas, we received a giant box of dates from California. Earlier this year, Dad called to tell me that his health was declining rapidly. This may not seem like a gift at first, but understanding the scarcity of the days I had left with