It was the last day of school before Christmas break, and my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. G, said that she had a gift for each of us. "I've picked out a book for you," she said (and some students groaned). "I tried to pick one that matched your personalities."
I was alight with anticipation, wondering what book she had selected for me. A Nancy Drew? A Ramona? Perhaps something like The Westing Game, or Harriet the Spy? Mrs. G called my name, and I dashed to the front of the room to be presented with:
Brighty of the Grand Canyon. Which was about a donkey, or a mule, or a burro of some kind, who ferried people in and out of the canyon, and perhaps there were bandits of some kind involved, and Brighty saved -- but the plot is not the point. The point is, this was a book about a jackass, and Mrs. G saw it, and thought of me.
My wish for you, on this holiest of nights, is that, tomorrow and evermore, you never receive, or bestow upon another, a gift as perplexing as this one.
Merry Christmas!
I was alight with anticipation, wondering what book she had selected for me. A Nancy Drew? A Ramona? Perhaps something like The Westing Game, or Harriet the Spy? Mrs. G called my name, and I dashed to the front of the room to be presented with:
Brighty of the Grand Canyon. Which was about a donkey, or a mule, or a burro of some kind, who ferried people in and out of the canyon, and perhaps there were bandits of some kind involved, and Brighty saved -- but the plot is not the point. The point is, this was a book about a jackass, and Mrs. G saw it, and thought of me.
My wish for you, on this holiest of nights, is that, tomorrow and evermore, you never receive, or bestow upon another, a gift as perplexing as this one.
Merry Christmas!
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