Christmas Presents Past it was a well-known quantity. By the time I reached my know-it-all teens, the gift was almost embarrassing and I had to fein my thanks. But for the rest of the winter, those pajamas were used more than any other present under the tree. The process would begin in the fall. Gramma would be sitting at her sewing machine in the small, sunny space off her kitchen and say, “Come over here, Dickie, let’s see how much you have grown.” I would stand, arms stretched out, as she measured from wrist to wrist with her worn and wrinkled tailor’s tape. The tape was so old the yellow coloring was brittle and many of the numbers were no longer legible. She would measure me from shoulder to shoulder, neck to ankle and then around my waist, making notes as she worked. Grampa deSchipper was usually sitting at the kitchen table, a thick white cloud of pipe smoke billowing around his head, as he watched the annual ritual. More likely than not, there was a Tigers baseball game on the AM radio. Some romantics say they like the smell of a good pipe. Grampa’s pipe did not have that rummy, sweet and warm smell that makes you think of college professors and ship’s captains. He smoked a brand of cheap tobacco called Old Summertime. It came in a pack with a picture of a Victorian
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