I once had the privilege of spending Christmas with a World
War II veteran and his family. I had just finished my last semester in college
studying abroad in a French exchange program that included a weekend trip to
Normandy and Brittany. Knowing while I was still in France that I was going to
spend the holiday with this stranger who so graciously invited me into his
home, I was faced with the imposing question of what to give him and his family
for Christmas. I had never met most of them before and the image of wrapping a
Yankee candle in tacky green paper seemed a poor exchange for the kind
invitation I had received at their hands.
{As a side note, the rhyme and reason to my spending
Christmas with this family is simply not my story to tell and so I will leave
those details unmentioned. I have however received permission to share this
one, intimate memory simply because it stands alone as a small testimonial and
therefore has meant a great deal to me.}
It seemed that just about the only thing I had in common
with this kind stranger was the Normandy beach I was standing on. It was indistinguishable from most
beaches I had seen save a few crumbling battlements half-hidden by barbed wire
and the weeds that wound and wrapped around them. I remember thinking how
haunting that something so terrible could happen there and leave little more
than a scarred coastline and a stifling air of sobriety. I thought of the
coming Christmas and realized there was nothing I could purchase that wouldn’t
be completely contrived. With the only idea I had, I walked to a gift shop
across the street, bought a glass bottle for one euro fifty, shook the contents into the trash can, and went
back to the beach. I scooped up what dry, unrocky sand I could find and
re-corked the bottle before putting it in my pocket. This would simply have to do.
Come Christmas day ornaments and sweatshirts were exchanged,
lip gloss emptied from stockings, and soon enough my little parcel was plucked
from under the tree and placed in his hands. I sat against the coffee table and
watched his wrinkled, precious fingers as they unwrapped the tiny glass vile.
Having pulled it from the paper, he said “Oh, how nice” with charming courtesy
and yet unmaskable confusion as to the reason that this strange girl, god knows
why, would give him a jar of dirt from god knows where.
“From South Carolina?” he said. (I have family that lives
there.)
“No.” I said. “Normandy. From one of the D-Day beaches.”
He held it silently for a few moments, turning the glass
over in his hand before choking on the quietest and sweetest thank you I have
never deserved to hear. I saw tears begin to well up in those eyes, leaving me
humbled and embarrassed and wondering what right had I to put them there. This
man, with exquisite grace, then began to share stories from his time in the
war, what it was like on the continent during the German Occupation, and being
present during the Liberation of Paris. He was one of those extraordinary
characters you come across once or twice in a lifetime that can make you laugh
with cheer one minute then suck the breath out of the room the next. If you
have ever met one you know exactly the kind of person I mean.
I don’t know why but the image of him cradling that bottle of sand has stayed with me since. It had nothing to do with Christmas or family or even gift giving in general. Perhaps it was because it impressed upon me forever the importance of story telling and of memories, and how eternally lucky you are if someone shares theirs with you.
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