"DON'T SHAKE IT!!" shouted my mother for what must have been the hundredth time.

"Why, is it nitroglycerin?" I joked back.

"You don't see your brother shaking his presents. You can open it on Christmas Eve."

Jarod and I were no longer children. Long gone were the days of train sets, racing cars, toy guns, and toy soldiers. But as Christmastime drew near, we regressed into bratty little kids again, resorting to puerile insults and a few punches now and then, usually harmless jabs to the back and shoulders.

Maybe because Jarod and his wife, Emily, had two kids of their own – Brenda, age eight, and Scott, age ten, he was a bit more mature than me. At thirty-four and still single, I was the "little" brother, lagging a good six years behind Jarod, so I was still a tad immature by comparison.

I guess he had his reasons for being a little annoyed with me around Christmas. It seemed like we were always fighting over the toys we got. Never satisfied enough to keep to my own presents, I always had to investigate what Jarod got. Since he was somewhat older than me, his toys were appropriate for a more mature child and were usually fragile, and therefore, more easily breakable. One year, Santa got him a Howdy Doody marionette. It looked like a perfect copy of the one on the TV show – complete with a red and white plaid cowboy shirt, a red bandana, red hair, and freckles. He had bright blue eyes and a big toothy smile with a jaw that would move up and down. The arms and legs all moved as well. A fine array of strings attached to two wooden crosses controlled their every movement - That is until I carelessly tangled them in knots!

"Aw, Mom! That's half the fun of getting presents – trying to guess what they are."

"You'll find out soon enough." Her stern warning, along with a disapproving glare from my brother, compelled me to place the small package safely back under the tree.

The tradition in our family has always allowed for one choice present to be unwrapped on Christmas Eve. The remaining gifts would have to wait their turn on Christmas morning. Dad was napping in his La-Z-Boy®, exhausted from playing with the grandkids. Jarod and I reached under the tree for our presents. Not having learned my lesson, I resumed my vigorous shaking of the brightly wrapped package that had my name on it. A little tag flopped up and down with every shake and rattle - To Andy, From Mom.

"You don't need to do that any longer," said Mom disapprovingly. "You can open it now."

Jarod's present was the same size as mine and had identical wrapping paper. While I was still shaking, he opened his gift – a box of Mom's homemade lacy oatmeal cookies. I shamefully unwrapped my gift with guarded expectation only to find a pile of Mom's homemade lacy oatmeal cookie crumbs.

Story and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2021 by Michael DeFrancesco