#NaNoWriMo 2014: Giving Thanks - Part 1
There are many holidays which ask us to remember all the reasons why we should be thankful. For Jaicobh MacDaede, merely being alive is a reason to give thanks:
Soledhan and Little Jaicobh were
the first of the children to attack their grandfather with the fullness of
their affection. They leapt at his legs, claiming one for each of them, hugging
him and chiming out how glad they were to see him, though they had only been
parted for one day, leaving
Dorrin to embrace Jaicobh about the neck, all three
children flailing their legs as he swung them about. The conclamant cry of “Den
Utaa!” “Grandda!” and “Great Uncle Jaicobh!” rang out as he bent to gather all
the children into his arms, Jaicobh’s salutation lost under a fit of giggles
tinkling over the sounds of the party drawing near the house.
“Here are my wee-uns,” Jaicobh declared
with exertion, lifting the children up high and then putting them down again. “Ready
for the holiday?”
“Yes!” the children sang.
“We got everythin’ waitin’ inside
for you: supper, warmed chocolate, got come baked apples and cake, we got the
whole house in decoration, got all the storybooks lined up next to the fire,
and,” kneeling down and whispering rather audibly behind a raised hand, “…we
got presents.”
The children gasped and then cried
out in exultation, holding one another and leaping up and down as they hallooed
and hollered and dance in a circle.
“Guess yer excited,” Jaicobh
laughed. “Mon inside and warm yerselves by the fire.”
“Wait, Great Uncle Jaicobh,” said
Dorrin.“We have something for you.”
Dorrin gave Soledhan a conscious
look and nodded eagerly in the direction of the party.
Soledhan scurried to the cart and
came back again, holding out a small wrapped parcel for his grandfather to take.
“For you, Den Utaa,” said he, with musical inflection.
Jaicobh stared at the parcel,
astonished at the gesture being forced on him by three smiling children. “What’s
this here?”
“Present for you, Grandda,” Little
Jaicobh insisted, pushing the parcel at his grandfather.
“Present? What’s all this about a
present? We granddas are supposed to be givin’ the presents.”
“Open it!” Little Jaicobh sweetly
demanded.
Jaicobh accepted the gift and
glanced at his son and daughter, who were standing behind the children and
eyeing him with sagacious glee, and when he was about to remind them of his
insisting on their not bringing any presents,
Sheamas said, “Don’t even try it, Da. We had nothin’ to do with this one.”
Jaicobh raised a brow and looked
unconvinced.
“He is being truthful with you,
father,” Boudicca persisted. “When the children were making gifts for each
other, they decided on their own that their parents and grandparents should
have giftsa notion probably glean from Baronous and Hathanta after they had
stressed the ideas of charity and gift-giving. The idea of giving you a gift
often crossed my mind when I was their age, and when carried out, you always
accepted after a short struggle. Never in my life have I seen someone fuss more
over wrapping paper and ribbon. If I had just given you something without
wrapping it or telling you it was a gift, I should hare fared far better.”
“You were designin’ about it,
darlin’,” said Jaicobh. “You’d figure out ways to make somethin’ not seem like
a gift, and then put it in my hand before knew what it was. Can’t give a gift
back what’s already in my hand.”
“Which is precisely why you cannot
give that one back.”
Jaicobh glanced at the gift in his
hand and pined that he had accepted it without being given a chance at refusal.
He appreciated the warmhearted gesture of being thought of and liked receiving
any token of affection from his children, but being poor for much of his life,
being used to meager means and living on little, he could not but understand
the tribulations of what it was to work hard for anything supernumerary. He
delighted in being able to give gifts to his children, small trinkets and
crafted items that bore the mark of someone else’s exertion, and while he
gloried in receiving anything from his children, he would rather something made
by them than something bought. He understood privation, knew what it was to
accumulate his wages and secret away every copper extraordinary, and though he
was the epitome of generosity and openhandedness, and taught his children to be
the same, he wished they might save their earnings and allow him to squander
his instead. Such was the right of a farmer and a father—Jaicobh thought so, at
least—and while he had presents for all his children and grandchildren in the
house, he could not think it right that three young boys were meant to give up
the few coppers they had for his sake, nor did he think it just that their
parents should offer money for a gift when their being there was more than gift
enough for himself.
“Den Utaa, open it,” Soledhan
pined.
Jaicobh glanced at the gift and sighed. “Will
you let me to open it later when we open all the other gifts?”
The children shook their heads,
their motions moving their whole bodies from side to side, and made mischievous
smiles.
“Now, please,” Little Jaicobh
chimed.
The children
widened their eyes and looked insistent, and Jaicobh exhaled and resigned with
an, “Aye, o’ right. I’m openin’ it, I’m openin’ it.”
He examined the parcel and turned it every
which way, and the children gathered close, spying Jaicobh with unabated
anticipation.
“Really want to see me open it,
aye?” said he laughingly.
They nodded, their eyes sparkling
with high glee.
“No!”
“You had better open it father
before they attack you,” the commander laughed. “And we brought you a pair of
socks, so you need not look for them there.”
“Everyone’s gotta have socks on
Ailineighdaeth,” said Sheamas impressively. “It’s tradition, Da,” and then,
with a serious look, “Besides, Mrs Cuineill made socks for all of us.”
“Aye, well,” said Jaicobh, “we all
need socks in Frewyn.”
With a glowing heart did Jaicobh
carefully undo the ties and peel back the packing paper, but what was his
surprise upon finding a stone slat, carved and painted with scenes of the
holiday in his hands? Astonishment was his first sensation to feel, but once
the thrill of revelation was over with him, elation prevailed, his heart grew
full, the lurks about his mouth widened and curled, and all the sanguine
reverie of receiving the first gift from his grandchildren assailed him. He
paused and examined the slat: it was a likeness of their farmhouse, carved and
painted into the stone, its exterior trimmed and fitted up for the holiday,
with trees festooned in fine dress, stars coruscating motionless into a carved
sky, symptoms of gaiety and affection everywhere, an indistinct family gathered
round a small bonfire, embracing one another and gazing up at the
constellations, the words Maith
Ailineighdaeth etched along the bottom. Jaicobh’s lips pursed, his hand lift
unconsciously, covering his mouth, and every feeling of affection and appreciation
succeeded. His eyes glistened, the trials of a full heart reigned over him, and
he had all the pleasure of struggling against too much happiness.
“What’s all this now?” said he, in
a faltering voice, trying for composure while his heart was under the power of
so much joy. He inhaled, looked up momentarily to call back his tears, and
endeavoured not to cry in front of the children who were eagerly crowding him.
“Is this the farmhouse?” said Jaicobh, encouraging the children to look at the
slat whilst he wiped away a tear with his arm.
“Aye!” Little Jaicobh cried.
“And that’s us, Great Uncle
Jaicobh,” said Dorrin, pointing to the silhouette of the family round the
bonfire.
Jaicobh sniffed. “Aye, so it is.
Well, guess we’ll have to make a fire outside later too so we can be warm while
waitin’ for the stars.”
The children hallooed and hopped up
and down in place, and Jaicobh was all smiling approbation. He drew the
children against him and gave them a warm embrace.
“Mho Bheannacht, mho grathi,”
said he, with doting gratulation. He kissed their heads, and then handing them
the slat, he urged them to go in the house with, “Go on in and show your
grandmother and great aunt Calleen what you brought us.”
They scampered in, calling out for
grandma and Den Imaa Calleen to come and look at the gift they brought her, and
Jaicobh smiled to himself, his heart sincerely oppressed, his sensibilities
longing to express what civility told him to restrain. Family would not have
minded the tearful musing of an old man, but a farmer so used to solitary
inundations of emotion would not relinquish his ideas of decency now. He
averted his eyes, gave a few hardy sniffs, and exhaled, his hand pressed
against his heart.
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