Merry Christmas, Dad!

I bet you thought I forgot about you. Instead of a tie or a pair of cuff links, you get....My 100th blog entry. I didn't even do that on purpose!

My dad is the most difficult person to buy for, for a number of reasons. First of all, if my dad really wants something, he simply goes out and gets it. He doesn't really mention it to anyone until it's already in his possession. Second of all, anything you could possibly think of as a reasonable option for a gift, someone else has already gotten it for him.

Par example: My dad loves food and wine. Cute wine stoppers? Got 'em. Wine stem charms? Hundreds. Garlic press? Check. Frank Stitt's latest cookbook? Two copies. Electric cheese grater? Yes. I could go on forever.

Thirdly, my dad has expensive taste. He's going to hate that I put that out there, but I guess it's not like it's some big secret. I have expensive taste too, I just suck it up because I can't afford to do anything about it. Case in point: I'm wearing leggings from Target with the Marc Jacobs earrings I begged for for Christmas. Also I carry my own beer to the bar in my purse so I can eat a decent dinner beforehand.

ANYWAYS. Dad. Hard to buy for.

The past few years I have written things for my dad in place of a gift. It works out pretty well because he enjoys that a lot more than anything I could buy him. I've written out memories from vacations and family memoirs--some funny, some sappy. The problem this year? I had no clue what to write. I felt like I'd exhausted the obvious topics and was stressed the entire week preceding Christmas trying to figure out what vignette would be the perfect gift for dad.

And there I had it: the perfect gift. My Dad gave me a perfect gift one time, and I think it reveals a lot about him, so that's what I'm going to write about this year.

It was February 21. I was turning eleven years old. Most eleven-year-old birthday parties consist of some combination of musty skates, cake with neon icing and noisy arcade games. Not mine. I spent my birthday at an antique auction in Asheville, North Carolina, listening to an old auctioneer drone...

"Collection of 19th-century charcoal sketches, we'll start the bidding at $125, do I hear $125?"

I had accompanied my dad on the premise that it would be a fun "father-daughter weekend, just the two of us;" a line that could convince me to go to Siberia in the middle of winter. I was definitely a daddy's girl, and as a new sister appeared like clockwork every two years I became increasingly resentful of the fact that I had to share him. Even if it meant skipping out on a birthday party, I'd willingly be his bidding buddy if it meant leaving my sisters behind.

I'm sure we did some fun things in between auctions, but that's not what sticks out in my mind when I look back at that weekend. What sticks out in my mind was being the youngest person in that huge, florescent-lit room by at least 20 years. Trying to figure out where in the world the bathroom was. Attempting to calculate how long it would take to auction off a thousand antiques if each one sold at an average of four minutes. I remember feeling a little sorry for myself as I sat still and silent in my folding chair.

What other kid spends their birthday watching a bunch of old people buy a bunch of old crap? Why can't they just buy it and get on with it? Why does it have to take soooo long??

I entertained myself by walking around and deciding what I'd buy if I had to choose only three things. I'd usually select the tacky stuff that no one else really wanted--a stuffed bird collection in a shadow box, a gaudy piece of costume jewelry, a framed monarch butterfly...

On the way home, I sat quietly in the passenger seat as we twisted through the mountains. "Kiley," my dad broke the silence. "Reach into the back and pick up the brown velvet box in that sack." I did as I was told. "I wanted to go ahead and give you your birthday present. Open it."

I opened the box and let out a little gasp. Inside was the most delicate, beautiful necklace I'd ever seen. Its chain was as fine as a strand of my hair, and at the bottom hung a silver teardrop with three diamonds in the middle, each one a little smaller than the one below. "This is for me?" I asked.

I lost everything when I was in middle school (some things never change). Homework, permission slips, shoes, glasses, jewelry. Definitely jewelry. And here was my dad, trusting me with a real necklace. Not just a real necklace, but the prettiest necklace in the world.

"Yes it's for you! Did you see it when I was bidding for it?"

I had been so busy with my framed monarch that I hadn't even noticed. I put the necklace on right there in the car and vowed that I would only wear it on special occasions and that I would never, ever lose it. I would be so careful with that necklace I'd never wonder where it was or what I'd done with it.

When we got home, I rushed inside to show my mom my present. My dad laughed while my mom protested, "That's not for her! Is that for me? That is NOT for her!!" I let her try it on, but not for long.

I pranced around to each of my sisters, "Look what Daddy got me for my birthday!" Unfortunately, they were too wrapped up in Spongebob Squarepants to give the wildly jealous reaction I'd been hoping for. That just goes to show they're not old enough for their tastes in fine jewelry to have developed like mine.

I sat in front of the mirror and stared at the precious stones sparkling against my crummy T-shirt. Even then I knew that it wasn't the beauty of the necklace that made it so special to me. It was the fact that my Daddy had picked it out for me. Though his hard work made it possible for us to get presents on our birthdays, he was never a part of the actual gift selection. But this one he had hand-chosen, just for me!

I wore that necklace every picture day from 6th-12th grade. I wore it on my first date. I wore it to prom and I wore it to graduation. For every milestone event there's pictures of, if you look closely you'll see those diamonds gracing my neck. And true to my promise, every time I took it off I'd put it in the same cushioned box on the same spot on my dresser.

The summer before I went to college, I noticed one day that the necklace wasn't in its place. I shrugged it off initially; one of my sisters had borrowed it, or this once I'd put it somewhere else. However, after weeks of it not turning up, I began to worry. I would never just put it down somewhere reckless, so where WAS it? I finally told my mother, despite being terrified of her response. Together, we turned the entire house upside down. We lifted every piece of furniture and even emptied out and sorted through the vacuum bags. No necklace. In fact, I only discovered more of my jewelry missing. I thought of the look that would be on Dad's face when I told him.

"Mom, I know I lose things a lot. But not this necklace. You know I always took good care of it."

Mom had a funny look on her face. "No, no. I know you did."

Long story short, we later learned that a housekeeper had been taking jewelry from our house for weeks. Ours was one of several homes she had stolen from. Though I was able to get a ring back, the necklace was not returned. My mom even called the lady one day.

"Listen. I'm not trying to get you into any trouble. I just want to know where the necklace is. If you sold it to a pawn shop, I just want to know where. That necklace is worth far more in sentimental value than it could be sold for."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I was devastated. Even thinking about it now, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. So many times during college, I'd put on a dress for a formal and think how pretty that necklace would look with it.

The day I graduated from Alabama, my family came to our house after the ceremony. We ate cake and drank champagne and I tried to be happy. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why this was cause to celebrate. For me, it signified the worst day of my life thus far: the day my college career officially ended. I was on the verge of tears the entire day. My parents gave me a watch. My grandparents gave me some graduation money, my sisters gave me hugs. Then before they left, my dad came up to me with one more box. "Proud of you," he said as he kissed the top of my head. I unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was a necklace that looked very familiar. I looked up at my dad, unable to hold the tears back now. "We got someone to replicate it," he said. "We tried to remember what it looked like the best we could; does it look right?"

It looked perfect.

Dad likes to joke that he'll never be as sweet as his dad (my grandfather is hands-down the sweetest, most gentle man on earth). He'll say, "Oh, if I only end up half as sweet as my dad, I'll be good." We always joke back that there's not a shot in hell.

I'll say it now, Dad, because you probably don't hear it very often: If we're going to be completely honest, you're off to a pretty good start. Give it twenty years and I'll think you'll give Dada a run for his money!

I love you Dad. Merry Christmas.