An unexpected holiday tradition cut its way into my family in 1978. That was the year that my grandmother shared our Christmas knife with my mother.
Yes. A designated-veteran knife we use only at Christmastime for one intended purpose, and it wasn’t in the kitchen. It was for cutting wrapping paper. Why not use scissors to deck our halls like any normal family? Because the knife had five decades of stories tell.
This serrated utensil saw not only my grandmothers’ many Christmases but also my mother’s and my own. This knife has seen 50 years of Barbie Dolls, ugly Christmas sweaters and other gifts that most certainly will last a lifetime.
Back when I believed in Santa, I thought the knife was for my parents’ protection during the nights. Little did I know the worn, dull carver was actually used to skillfully wrap my Barbie Camper Paradise in 2007.
My childhood belief in old St. Nick was blown when I found Christmas paper in our garage closet and my mother explained that Santa was more of a “way of thinking” than an actual person. But the next Christmas, she passed on a new belief – one in the blade and all its Yuletide stories. And taught me precisely how to wield it.
It didn’t dim my enthusiasm for the holidays but rather supercharged it. My mom tutored me in her ways of smuggling presents inside the 10-feet-long Christmas tree box and how to under bake the cookies just long enough to not give you salmonella.
Now with the Christmas knife and its endless expertise, I not only wrap my presents for my family and friends, but it’s a way for me and my mother and I to spend the holidays together. The Christmas knife holds more than just the presentability of the present, but the weight of Christmas past.
This year, the Christmas knife will be wielded once more. It will wrap its share of presents – and will continue to do so until I am able to share its spirit with my own children.
