The box! the bow! the plop!

One of my Grandfather's Christmas traditions involved wrapping an old brown shellacked dog poop in a box with paper and ribbon, and handing it out to someone on Christmas morning. Every year. The box. The bow. The plop. My little chubby Italian Grandfather in his bathrobe with his jams buttoned to the neck, with his brown leather slippers, his hair uncombed and sticking up on the side, would bring out this box after everyone had finished opening their gifts, hand it to someone and then turn and shuffle back to his place on the sofa. He'd sit with his shoulders up and his lips pursed tight, practically IMPLODING WITH UTTER JOY.

Go on, open it, he'd say, his voice quivering.

No really, I can't.

You're gonna love it. (eeeeeeeee)

No, you've done so much already.

You deserve it! (ooooooooo)

Let's drop it at the orphanage.

But I had it engraved. (nnnnnnn)

Each time he'd respond he'd pan to all our faces sitting and watching as if to say, Wait'll you see this!!!!

Well all right, if you insist... Wait a....just a....WHAT?????

And then he'd dissolve into a full minute of giggling and coughing and crying while we all filed into the kitchen for the next portion of the day.