Bob's nativity

He called me Bob. That was then, and it narrows the time. It's shorter and better than diminutive Bobby. Presently Bo. The name will eventually reduce to simple vocalized bilabial plosive approximating B and all that is better than Bob.

I enjoyed a sudden random burst of emails from my older brother who seldom writes. That was fun. Barry sent photos of a nativity he pulled out of storage that I made when I was a child myself. I made these, grew up with these, grew tired of these, and then left home. He told me he posted these new photos on Facebook, a place I don't go. I was here at the moment and wrote back. 

Thank you. 

I'm going to use these for a post tonight. 

They're a bit embarrassing because a child made them, but I don't care anymore. The eyes are blue dots. Or brown dots. Divided equally between them. Like we are. C'mon. I was such a little dunce.

Thank you for showing me, I bet kids like to play with them. Do you let them touch them and play around? If they break you can always glue them back. Add to their silly history. Damn, your grandkids are probably playing with them. I think that's nice. They don't care about blue dot eyes.

Barry responds quickly.

I told Brenda that if any of the kids break any one of the figurines, I would break their wrist. They are in remarkably good shape and I intend to keep them that way. So far, one of the cows is missing an ear, but that's it. Oh, was the baby Jesus supposed to be attached to the cradle? 

The baby Jesus was the last to be found in the box through all the insulation. I almost panicked to think the only piece missing would be the "star" (pun intended) of the show.

Ha ha ha. He'd have to make a baby Jesus from putty. (See? I told you he's the worst punner. It's why he's so easily amused with poorly crafted puns and why the pop-up cards slay him. Honestly, they're not that funny, but to him they're hilarious. He's rational otherwise.) But it's terrible imagining my nieces and nephews and their children threatened by mean older brother just because of a broken ceramic. I'd rather he say simply, "play and try to be careful." 

Me: Oh, I see. You're showing me Dad's handwriting.

Barry: Yes, that and the label he put on it about the sensitive instruments. I remember he built that wooden box with special insulation. I still have the box, too. Did you get all six pictures?

Barry: Your work brings special feelings to us all. All these years. I wrote on FB that it's not Christmas around here until this is brought out, and I mean that. Thank you for the sentimental memories.

Snap. Sentimental memories is deep as Barry goes. I made an enduring family tradition at ten years of age. Wanna see it? Here goes. It's stupid. And a bit big.

I hadn't seen this box before. The label means Dad stored these protected. Each piece carefully wrapped. Back and forth upstairs and down, house to house to house, each year, decade upon decade, whether or not I am there. Barry had them some eight or nine years on the other side of the country, Northeast and then South. These things have been around more than most people. Now they're in Texas.

No. Jesus must be separate, to be played with separately. By children. To fly around the room like an airplane and carefully airlifted down to the manger, just so, a gift to the world with his little blue dot eyes and all that he means for whoever looks in, whoever wonders, whoever will play.