Sharon Fiffer

When I was in second grade at St. Pat's Grade School in Kankakee, I had a wonderful teacher named Mrs. Kilbride.  She wore straight plaid skirts and pointy glasses and had crimped wavy hair.  I remember angularity and a face with sharp contours. I think she might have been considered strict, but I remember her as fair and kind and someone who reminded us we were no longer babyish first graders.  Second grade was real school.

Around Thanksgiving, Mrs. Kilbride's class drew names for a Christmas gift exchange, an idea I found absolutely thrilling. The secrecy plus the responsibility of choosing a gift for another student was unbearably exciting.  I read the name on my slip of paper and loved the fact that someone had drawn my name.  I would be getting a present from a mysterious giver.  Would it be a boy or girl?  Would it be from someone who was my friend or someone I hardly knew?  How would they know what I might like?

I wish I could say I chose the perfect present for my giftee, but I have no memory of whose name I drew or what I gave. I confess I thought more about what I might get, not what I would give.  It was probably candy.  Candy was very big that year.

On the day of the Christmas party, row by row, we stood and delivered our gifts. Mary Anne C., a girl I didn't know well, handed me a tiny wrapped box. In it was nestled a tiny angel figurine.  An angel with kittens! So cute.  So perfect.  So fragile. I carefully replaced it in its box and carried it home in my coat pocket, my mittened hand wrapped around it to make sure it didn't fall out.

That night, my mother who was usually unimpressed with my school news, turned over the tiny angel and read "bone china" aloud and told me I should take good care of my gift and keep it safe.

I placed the angel by my bed. It was the last thing I saw every night and the first thing I saw every morning. To this day, I treasure my angel--no chips, no flea bites--it remains in perfect condition. I have kept it safe.

Did I thank Mary Anne?  I'm sure I did, but I'm afraid I didn't thank her enough.  Maybe her mother chose it or maybe it was a last minute purchase at Kresge's dime store, but to me, it was magical, a perfect gift. After all, it was a breakable thing, a grown-up objet d'art and I was deemed a worthy caretaker.

I hope I thanked her.  And if I didn't express myself well enough then, I say it now.  “Thank you, Mary Anne.”