It was New Year time, and it would be our first New Year away from Alabama. That winter, my mother and my stepfather moved our family to Southern California. My athletic little brother, Paul, was1 about the climate that allowed him to go to the beach2 he wanted.
I, however, was a fat child with typical southern3 .
On my first day in the new class, I introduced myself in a low voice. All I said was my name and where I was from. The class burst into4 , "He talks funny. " I was so5 that I went to place a call to Granny Smith after school, who was my biggest6 . But I didn't7 .
On Sunday evening, the phone rang. It was Granny. She often took advantage of the discounted long-distance8 on Sundays. She said she'd9 a New Year package. Sure enough, it arrived. Surprised at the box, large enough to hold a small refrigerator, we10 it open. The smell of Granny's house filled the room: a11 of fried meat, sausages, furniture polish and decorations. While always filled with12 holiday decorations and homemade food before New Year, Granny's house, in my childhood eyes, was precious and fantastic.
There were countless tins and containers. We opened them to discover piles of holiday13 . She even included our traditional candy bars. The box was as bottomless as a magic al box. There, 14 all these, was my familiar holiday.
Every New Year that we spent in California, the15 service could call. Over the years, many treasures arrived in the box. For me, it's always been the best part of the holiday.
