Christmas morning couldn't officially begin until Dad had shaved. That was the rule in the Dyer house when I was growing up. We--my two brothers and I--could run downstairs and look at the gifts spread out under the tree (which we did), we could cry out for Dad to hurry (which we did, which he never did), we could pick packages up and guess (and shake and wonder and hope), we could plead with Mom (which we did), we could hope for her intervention (which never happened), we could run back upstairs a score of times, checking the bathroom (Dad out yet? Has Dad finished shaving yet?)--and then ... that most magnificent Christmas sound of all.
Dad opening the bathroom door. Starting down the stairs, bringing Christmas with him.
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