The Stocking

It hung on the mantle over the ancient hissing gas stove, its once limp form now oddly mishapen from the bounty stuffed  within. I knew without a doubt what some of the contents would be, the very same every year…an apple, an orange, an English walnut, and York Peppermint Patties. These treasures would be accompanied by small but wonderfully thoughtful gifts, carefully chosen, lovingly given. Traditions carried over from childhood to childhood, each generation adhering to the old, sometimes making room for the new (York Peppermint Patties). No matter what surprises lay in store for Christmas morning, the stocking was always my first stop in the wee hours of Christmas morning. I didn’t care for oranges or English walnuts, but I loved the tradition, the constant in my broken family…and I never failed to make myself ill eating those 5am peppermint patties. The breakfast of champions…holiday edition. They still mean Christmas morning to me to this day. Isn’t it amazing how such simple things can mean so much?


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