The green rubber high top boots were perhaps the most memorable Christmas present I've ever received. They made a profound statement about love and sacrifice to an impressionable young boy who never forgot the meaning of that unselfish gesture. In stark contrast to this era of $125.00 basketball sneakers, and $200.00 team jackets my boots were inexpensive, however at the time they were a considerable expenditure considering my dad's very modest income. Our celebration of the birth of Christ has sadly become a display of excess. I'm discouraged by the theme, which begins to hawk this very special season, by the first week of October. When I was a kid it was Halloween first and the Christmas season was never ushered in until the weekend after Thanksgiving when my home town of Fall River sponsored a ceremony highlighted by turning the Christmas decorations on, along with caroling on Main street. It was a different, simpler, much more peaceful time. People knew their neighbors, talked, visited, shared and cared about them. There were few homeless persons, at least I was not acquainted with any and our home was pretty close to the end of the line, located near the river edge.

I can still recall that extraordinary Christmas morning as if it were yesterday as times were very difficult for our family of five. I was the oldest of three children and knew from overhearing whispered discussions that my parents had planned to give my brother and sister a few modest toys and I would get some clothing and hopefully a gift from one of our more prosperous relatives. What I really wanted was a pair of leather Hi-Top hiking boots like the ones with the secret jack-knife pocket that were displayed in the window of Girard's shoe store. Some of the ‘more affluent’ boys who fished the riverbank and hunted the fields with me wore them. When I took to the rivers and fields my dad was embarrassed because I donned an old pair of black overshoes with rusted clasps to protect my only pair of school shoes. That Christmas I expected some school clothes and perhaps some basic bottom fishing tackle from my dad's friend, who owned Benny's Hardware, where I sold sea worms and clams during the spring and summer months. On Christmas morning when I saw that big box with my name on it my hands began to tremble. The wrapping paper came off slowly, cautiously because I wanted to avoid disappointment until finally I uncovered the box that contained those marvelous green boots. I recall putting the package down without removing the cover and embracing my parents, all three of us in tears. My little brother, unaware of the inspiring circumstances, asked why we were acting so sad on such a happy occasion. The vivid recollection of my parents, with so very little for themselves, giving their all for their children has never been lost on me all these years. The box did not contain the leather high-tops but a handsome pair of calf high rubber boots. Today, if you gave some kids a pair of green rubber boots for Christmas, you’d quite likely just get a disappointed look.

All that day I wore those boots over the soft pair of gray and red woolen hunting socks which had been stuffed inside of them then placed them at the bottom of my foot board every night. Mom said I could only wear them on weekends and after school, unless it rained or snowed, so I spent a portion of my daily religious classes at St. Michael's Parochial school praying for foul weather. Over the next several years those boots were covered with the pungent river mud as I dug worms, clams and fished along the shore free from the worry of wet stockings and cold feet which were a fact of life with the old black overshoes. My new boots wore numerous scars from the bull briar thickets along the edge of the farmlands where we hunted rabbits, and survived numerous salt water dunkings when I bailed row boats on their tether at the yacht club anticipating some loose change which occasionally came from their grateful owners. I don't know how many pairs of yellow laces I went through on those magic boots but my friend and benefactor Benny, the hardware proprietor, claimed it was dozens. Despite my best efforts to protect and preserve them the boots began to exhibit their age. First the top tabs at the laces came apart from tramping through hundreds of miles of rocky shoreline and hedgerows of stubborn brush. The seam joining the sole and uppers began to leak and my mentors at the boat club came up with exotic repairs to keep my feet dry. They appeared tattered and worn but they were beautiful to me.

My dad died when I was 13. As he was carried from our house on a stretcher he pressed his watch into my hand and reminded me I was now the man of the house. Few 13 year olds are ready to cope with such a loss or assume such a responsibility yet because of his nurturing and caring hand over those years I was better prepared than most. I never saw that extraordinary man alive again but his memory lives on in the example he set for his children.

I don't recall just how many years of service I obtained from those boots but it was not until my feet ached from their constraints that I grudgingly put them aside. I could never bring myself to discard them and when I explained their significance to my bride they became a part of the memorabilia that moved with us from house to house.

Things have changed. Every year I watch privileged children tear wrappings off expensive Christmas gifts which two weeks later are discarded, broken, and often forgotten. Three years ago I gave a little boy a rod and reel which he treasures. Through countless trips to the shore it has suffered bent tips and twisted guides, which have been my pleasure to repair. The rod and reel is our mutual connection to each other and to fishing which we share a mutual love for.

I'm thankful our children rearing days are over. This fall we were in a sporting goods store where we observed a young couple with two boys. Both children wore expensive Pro-Sport caps, name brand sneakers and designer clothing. It was obvious those ‘working class’ parents by their immaterial appearance and the dialogue, which ensued; were "forced" into providing their children with items, which they could really not afford. We provided our own boys with the best we could provide, not the expensive brands which current day peer pressure forces on struggling families. One of dad's many lessons was never to fear walking a lonely road. A case in point was my school days at Durfee High. Many of my friends and classmates were wearing the popular and expensive jackets of the masses while I wore a simple tan canvas Duxbak hunting jacket with corduroy color and cuffs dad gave me before he passed away. Rather than being mocked for my non-conformance numerous students asked where they could get a neat coat just like it. Is it a coincidence that the most popular jacket of the past few years is the identical canvas "barn coat?" Dad reminded me necessity was the mother of invention, a proviso that has never been lost on his oldest son.

In retrospect my best Christmas gift was probably not the high top boots but being blessed with loving, caring parents who set a simple yet befitting example for their children. We all have an opportunity, perhaps more an obligation, to make a difference in the lives of our children. Fishing and the outdoors have provided me and my family with a wonderful life so we have something precious and worthwhile to share. This Christmas don't put all your feelings into brightly wrapped gift boxes. Give the gift of love. Take the time to care and share. Hold hands, embrace, talk with your children and show them your love by your actions. It's a gift that will bring you closer together and last throughout your lifetime. Soon enough our children go their separate ways, now is the time to give them a reason to want to come back to you. To all my readers I thank you for all your many kindnesses throughout the year and wish you and yours a healthy and happy Christmas season.