The Best Gift of All

by Tony Kinton

Little buddy, I bought your Christmas present today. It is the best available. I hope you like it. But as I was looking through the shelves for the gift, I suddenly realized that the very finest things were not there—not for sale, not mine to give. If these were, however, I would have a long list for you this year.

First, I would give you a lifetime of health. I would see to it that you continue to grow strong—both physically and mentally. And to that health I would add an abundance of happiness and joy. I would also give you the ability to keep that childhood faith, trust, innocence, and wonderment throughout old age. There would never be room for hatred or cynicism.

I would give you summers filled with sunshine. There would be quiet pools and soft breezes. I would throw in some crashing whitewater and give you the ability to conquer it, but also to respect it. One of your greatest thrills would be to, for a brief moment, become one with the rapids, riding and winning but leaving them as you found them—wild, natural, and unmarked by your presence.

And certainly there would be trout streams. It is a memorable experience to watch a big rainbow rise to a fly you have just offered. Creek banks and bream lakes would also be an integral part of the gift. No boy should grow into manhood without such simple pleasures.

I would give you some nights alone in a quiet camp. You get to know yourself in such situations.

There would be more than many glorious autumns. The colors would be brilliant, the weather crisp, and you would have that uncanny eye to see and appreciate it all. Nothing would be missed; all would be absorbed and you would become a richer person for it.

You would have your time along a blustery, secluded New England shoreline. Your cottage would be warm and simple, and in it you could plan and make important decisions regarding your future.

I would see to it that you were able to watch winter come to the Rockies. You would learn to marvel at the sudden changes. You would stare in amazement at the bare, stark aspens standing sentinel over a white world.

Springtime for you would be incredible. There would be blooming dogwoods, budding oak trees, and countless tom turkeys sounding a powerful gobble.

And if you, as I, chose to become a hunter, I would give you many more things. You would be given a goose pit in Texas. You would have a Mississippi swamp, pine ridges.

I would give you the Wyoming prairie, the sage and oak brush of Colorado, the spruce thickets of Montana, the black timber of New Mexico. You would have a bear camp in Maine.

You would enjoy many days in a big wall tent as it fluttered in a western breeze. You would sit tall and confidently in the saddle among the pack string. You would see more stars than you thought possible as these sparkled on a cold night in the clear mountain skies.

You would have an abundance of game, the skill of a seasoned stalker, and a keen eye. But you would have an ever-growing sense of sadness that would well up inside each time you knelt beside a fallen monarch, always aware of the sobering but euphoric experience in which you have just participated. And you would never be ashamed to shed a tear at such times.

And while it won't interest you for a few years yet, I would give you a life filled with romance, mystique, intrigue, sensitivity. You would be given one great, true love.

But little buddy, I can't give you these things. They are there but are not mine to give. I can only hope and perhaps guide. I can, however, give you myself, my love. You have each—completely. And that just may be the best gift of all.