A burgundy red Christmas sweater. It had taken my mother about a year to knit the cardigan for my dad. She even managed to knit pockets in it! How, I haven’t a clue. My dad had had open heart surgery in 1967, and was forever cold afterwards. At the time, they were still living in Detroit where winters can be harsh. The sweater was made of thick yarn, chosen to keep him warm, and he loved it. After my dad died, mom came to spend Christmas with us in Virginia Beach, bringing the sweater with her to give to my husband as Flack had often admired it. Mom wrapped it carefully and put it under our tree.
All was well until we heard tiny munching sounds under the tree. We looked and listened, but couldn’t find anything for a couple days. Frustrated, I pulled out all the packages from under the tree, inspecting each to find out what was going on. My heart lurched when I saw the ripped wrapping paper with the sweater peeking out. A mouse had eaten a hole in the treasured sweater and I was upset to show it to my mother. She picked it up, looked it over, and said, “The hole is in the sleeve; I can fix that.” Off she went to the store to buy two leather patches, then proceeded to hand-stitch them on both elbows. Voila! A sweater as good as new. Even here in Pensacola, it gets cold in the winter and my husband enjoys wearing it. Perhaps, in time, the sweater will be passed on to our son. No hurry!
Of all the gifts that have been bought over the years, few retain the value of something made with love. I try to keep that lesson in mind every Christmas.