Well, it’s December 20th, 2025 and I might not write another blahg before Christmas. I guess I better make this one count. 
I’m going to debut a new Christmas short story. It has the distinct title of “THE TWO AND TEN…A CHRISTMAS GIFT EXCHANGE.” I think I did a good job with it but then I’m biased.
This story relies heavily on some real traditions and real items in my house or events that have happened over recent Christmas or some when my children were younger. None of the conflict with the Father and his Brother are based on fact but we really do have a two and ten Christmas gift exchange in our house. We draw names twice. The first person selected, you purchase a gift up to a value of two dollars. Of course that amount has risen to five dollars this Christmas. The second amount is no more than ten dollars. You can’t draw yourself and you can’t draw the same name for both the two and ten.
Other items mentioned in the story rely on real events. The following five pointed star was our tree topper up to a few years ago when it failed and couldn’t be repaired:
It was replaced by a eight pointed starburst version which is nice but wasn’t the same:
Recently I found the exact same five pointed store at a thrift store and it was in the original box. Here it is now, atop our tree:
Other items incorporated in my story include our mantel display. Here’s our 2025 Christmas mantel Christmas display and if you zoom in you can see some of the unique items:
One of the favourite items also mentioned are the carolling bears atop a book:
A second mention goes to the naked Santa:
Again, even though there are some real elements in my story, it is not reflective other real events. Here’s the story, enjoy!
THE TWO AND TEN…A CHRISTMAS GIFT EXCHANGE
BY
SCOTT HENDERSON
Truth be told, it didn’t start out as two and ten. In fact, it could have been one and done in the beginning but there was no second amount back then so one stood alone. Lately, however, it had risen to five and a second amount of fifteen or what the son had conjectured that the market could bear.
It was a family gift exchange and the two and ten referred to the dollar amount each person was allowed to spend on the family member whose name they randomly selected in the draw. By the end of October the selections would be made and a corresponding list was pinned to the refrigerator. By early December everyone had forgotten for whom they were to have purchased a five dollar gift and who was the secondary at fifteen. The list would be referred to and poked at and smudged by fingerprints until the presents were all purchased and wrapped; with the list eventually recycled.
Dad always claimed it was based on a family custom but there was little fact in the legend. Dad had said when he was younger, he didn’t have the wherewithal to buy his brother a gift but one Christmas he found a quarter and turned it over to his brother with nothing expected in return. Lore had it that the brother was so touched he gave his younger sibling a baseball card which would have been worth forty-eight dollars today if dad hadn’t mislaid it over the years. Father sometimes also offered a different version of the story. Yes, he had found a quarter but it had belonged to his brother and he had had no intention of giving it up. Forced by his parents to return it, he did so reluctantly; all the while vowing and plotting his revenge. The brother immediately bought himself a package of hockey cards and quickly consumed the solitary gum in the pack lest he be forced to share. Father, even more incensed by the lost opportunity of sharing in the gum than the loss of the rightful finders-keepers-losers-weepers quarter eventually got even. In the spring, he liberated one of the cards from the pack and attached it to a spoke in the rear wheel of his bicycle with a clothes pin and rode around the neighbourhood until he could no longer hear the clacking sound. The card was lost for all time and the legend grew of a rookie card worth several hundred dollars floating among the sewers, devoured by a stray canine, or mulched among the leaves by a gas powered mower. One and done.
Father carried the spirit of the exchange forward with his own children. He couldn’t remember how old they were when the practice started anew. He remembered well, however, that none of his three children, when they were younger, ever really had much pocket money so the parents were often called upon to bankroll the two and ten. Mom and Dad both found it oddly strange to subsidize their own gifts when either of the two daughters or the son drew their parents’ names. Father also recalled walking through thrift stores with the children and pointing out items he thought were suitable ideas for the exchange. He’d often had to put on a very surprised face when he was one of the recipients of an article he himself had pointed out days or weeks earlier.
The girls were always thoughtful with their time and gifts; even if they had needed financial support when they were younger. The son needed a little more coaching. Father remembered once pointing out to the lad a ceramic ornament in a second hand shop of three small bears caroling while balanced atop a stack of books. He commented how nice it would look seated atop their mantel. He wasn’t surprised when the son immediately asked for the loan of two dollars and the decoration found itself wrapped beneath the tree. The item had only cost half of that which Father had spotted his son and the boy might have pocketed the difference. Still, Father, observed later, it was the thought that counted.
Sometimes the son could be full of other surprises. Father would often comment about a book he’d like to read or an album he’d like to own and then be pleasantly stunned to receive it labeled from the boy to him. He often thought that Mother had lent a hand on those occasions but it was Christmas and he preferred to give his son the credit.
The mantel items grew through the gift exchange every year and annually the process of cleaning off the yearlong items from above the fireplace, and replacing them with Christmas themed notions, lengthened. Soon there wasn’t a space left. That didn’t stop the items from coming and older curios removed to make room for new ones.
Father also loved nutcrackers and these ranged in size from the handheld versions to ones that dwarfed two feet or more. The whole family indulged him and they spent the whole year looking for unique nutcrackers to add to the collection. Ones purchased after the holiday season would sit atop a book shelf in the living room and then be added to the main assortment the following Christmas. It wasn’t uncommon to spot seven or eight new figures grouped together even in the middle of summer. By the following Christmas there would be another dozen and a half new acquisitions. The mantel soon became a nutcracker free zone as the collection grew and they required relocating in another part of the living room. Father built a special shelf to house them all but this too, like the mantel, required adjustments and additions to the shelving to accommodate the growth of the nutcracker family.
Not all of the nutcrackers were new and some had suffered damages even before they found their new home. There was a pirate version that was missing his eye-patch. A couple had lost their swords or walking sticks while others were missing their beards, appendages, or other items they once held in their hands. There was one missing a hat and another a boot. Father would joke about these and talk about the nutcracker wars and how these veterans had not made it through unscathed.
The mantel menagerie continued to grow as well. There were more than a hundred items crammed across the ledge above the hearth. There were numerous Santas and snowmen. There was a trio of ice-skating penguins. Christmas trees festooned with colored lights and trifles were surrounded by angels and other holiday themed characters. There were cats and dogs and birds and polar bears and reindeer and other sundry animals in festive costumes or holiday scenes.
“Why are there no Christmas monkeys?” Dad would ask every year when they worked to put up the display. He would often add “this mantel is getting too full. It needs another tier. Is there such a thing as a bunk mantel? You know, like bunk beds?” He was the only one who would laugh at this joke.
Front and center was always the little caroling bears ornament given by the son years before. It was a favourite of Father’s as was the comical trinket that stood next to it. The youngest daughter had gifted Father a ceramic outdoor shower with a door that swung open to reveal Santa in the altogether with only a stocking strategically placed to cover Santa’s nether-region. The youngest daughter had a wry sense of humour when it suited her.
On Christmas Eve there was always a fire in the grate. Mother would turn off all of the lights except those dancing on the tree. The family would stand back and look over the mantel display and enjoy the warmth of the room. Usually one of the daughters would rearrange certain items to bring forward a favoured treasure. Father would smile and watch and then think to himself that huge delights came in small wonders.
The family would inevitably turn and take in the Christmas tree. A real one always stood in the corner. Father did not believe in artificial replacements. In addition to the lights it would always be decked from top to bottom in items of various sizes and array. Old baked dough ornaments, crudely hand-painted by younger hands, nestled in the tree. Newer decorations lurked behind valued items. Some of these had been gifts for the two dollar amount before it gave way to the new five dollar base expense. Wrapped around the entire fir tree was a string of gold garland that had been patched and lengthened over the years. Splices were strategically hidden by balls and baubles and, in one particular spot, by the figure of a robin who Father quipped refused to fly south for the winter.
Above everything perched the star. For Mother, it was the one thing that cast a shadow on all their Christmas traditions. Gone was the original five pointed version, purchased many years before she and Father had expanded their family. It had been supplanted by a newer starburst design. It was beautiful but not the same. The cherished heirloom had burned out and Father could not repair it. The wiring had become faulty with age and even the plastic peg that held it to the tip had become brittle and broken. For the last two years of its life it had been held aloft by a green hair clip.
When the children were younger, after viewing the mantel arrangement and the tree in turn, they’d ask Father to tell them the tale of the nutcracker wars and the myth of the original gift exchange with his brother.
The story of the nutcracker wars had grown over time and Father would delight in grabbing up some of the figures in turn and moving their mechanisms while he voiced their opinions.
“I don’t know how it started,” one black bearded character would begin, “but I know it was the fault of the white beards.”
“It all had to do with the dark beards,” a white beard would counter.
Different crackers were swapped out and different parts of the story were carried on with Father bringing in accents and modulated voices to embellish the mythology. Representatives of the injured class would speak of how they lost limbs or accessories.
“I miss my arm,” one would recall. “I lost it in a sword fight to a beardless trooper with a gold crown. I thought he was taking on airs and so I challenged him to a duel.” There was a beardless crown adorned soldier in the collection that would be called upon to comment but would always feign off by stating “I have no recollection of the event.” There was never an explanation on how he lost his beard.
The fable of the original gift exchange and the loss of the sports card was a more difficult saga for Father to recount. He had not spoken to his brother in some time and the memory of their youth was too painful now to try and spin into a Christmas convention. Father preferred to expand on the nutcracker wars and would beg off expounding on his family drama until the children stopped asking about it. Eventually both parables ceased to be requested by the children as they aged.
Father and the Uncle had become estranged since the death of the children’s Grandfather. Old hatreds loomed and bitterness festered between the brothers after their own Father’s passing. Responsibility for their Mother didn’t seem to be equally shared. The Uncle, being the oldest, didn’t feel the obligation. He wasn’t a family man. He’d never married and he didn’t have children. He deferred to his younger sibling saying he was obviously better qualified. Gradually the need to exchange pleasantries dwindled to no contact whatsoever. There were no calls or cards or letters. The elder took a job and moved further away. His distance became another excuse for commitment to his surviving parent. Father heard news of him occasionally from his Mother. He struggled to give proper interest to his brother’s doings. His Mother didn’t interfere but Father knew it hurt her nonetheless to see the remoteness between her sons.
It was his own son who asked this Christmas for the retelling of the original gift exchange. The request was unexpected. Father was taken aback. His first reaction was to respond in the fashion of the crowned beardless nutcracker and reply that “I have no recollection of the event.” Instead, Father looked thoughtful and then began to speak.
“Let me tell you the story of the first gift exchange. It took place a long time ago, long before even the nutcracker wars. Three kings, crowned but bearded, followed a star to Bethlehem. They took with them precious gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. There was no value implied. In fact, it wasn’t much of a trade because the kings expected nothing in return. They sought only to worship the child born in a manger but were rewarded with a profound feeling of peace, love and understanding. The exchange had been fulfilled.”
Father looked around. Mother had tears in her eyes. The children were speechless. If any of them thought he had deliberately avoided telling of the alleged tradition with his brother then none felt it necessary to speak up.
Uncomfortable with the sudden quiet, Father decided to bring everything back to the present.
“Who’s ready for the two and ten?” Father asked.
“The five and fifteen, you mean,” the eldest daughter said.
“Or whatever,” the son chimed in. Father didn’t offer his own correction to the son’s thoughts. He was still pondering on the son’s odd request for the retelling of the family gift exchange.
Christmas Eve was always reserved for the gifting of the denomination presents. If someone was satisfied with their bounty it sent them to bed with pleasant dreams. If displeasure was felt, it left hope for better offerings to be received in the morning.
This night there was no disappointment. All of the gifts had registered appreciation and delight in every member of his family. Maybe it was truly felt or maybe the impact of Father’s retelling of the gifts of the magi had made everyone think twice about even displaying dissatisfaction.
Father, himself, had cheated this year when it came to the gift exchange. He had drawn his youngest daughter’s name but had swapped with his eldest daughter when the list revealed she had drawn her Mother. It still gave time for the older sister to find something suitable for her younger counterpart.
“I drew Mother,” Father exclaimed in turn after all the others had received their five dollar gift. The opening always worked from youngest to oldest when it came to the lower amount and then reversed order for the slightly more expensive. Father cast a knowing eye in the direction of his first born. He had had to let her in on the secret in order to make the trade.
Motherly gingerly unwrapped her gift. When finished, she stared intently at the contents and began to weep. Here was the five pointed star in its original box.
“How?” was all she could say through her tears.
Father told of his second-hand store find. He had walked alone among the Christmas shelves, looking to add to his nutcracker ensemble, when he spotted the star tucked behind a row of holiday themed mugs. The fact that it was still in its original box made it all the more special.
Mother silently detached the star from its case and handed it to Father. He removed the starburst version and placed the original, but newly acquired one on top of the tree and plugged it in. He had made sure it lit properly before he had made his purchase. It didn’t shine any brighter than the starburst variety but it seemed to fill the room with an indefinable brilliance.
“Can I have the starburst one?” the oldest asked. “I’ve gotten used to it. I’d like to have it for my own tree when I move out someday.”
Father retrieved a towel and gently wrapped the topper and placed it in cardboard box. He taped it closed and wrote “starburst” across the lid and the name of his daughter underneath. He did not look forward to his daughter leaving the nest one day but he’d safeguard the star for her against the inevitability.
Father’s five dollar gift was a ceramic monkey gifted to him by his youngest daughter. It wore a red Santa Claus coat and held out ceramic cymbals.
“I made it during our pottery segment in art class. My costs were the paints and a new brush. It’s your Christmas Monkey!” She beamed with pride.
Father chuckled and then hugged his daughter. He went to the mantel and pushed apart the caroling bears and the showering Santa. The Christmas Monkey would forever be front and center.
“It looks like we’re going to need a bunk mantel,” the son observed. Everyone laughed.
It was Father’s turn again to receive a present as the order was reversing again for the ten dollar gifts. The son plucked one from under the tree and handed it to his parent.
Father made a big deal of feeling the wrapping all over. It was flat and thin and hard when tapped on what he perceived to be the front.
“I’ll bet it’s a basketball,” he mused. The son just stood pensive and waited for his Father to open the present.
The wrapping came away easily and revealed an old photo. It had been digitally enhanced and enlarged and the colours were more vibrant. It was a picture of Father and his brother from younger days.
Before Father could find the words to ask about it, the son spoke up.
“Grandma let me go through all of her old photo albums and other things in her attic. This one was actually found at the bottom of a box of Christmas decorations she had pulled out. She couldn’t explain how it had gotten there.”
Father knew. In fact, it was from an old Polaroid taken on a long ago Christmas morning when Father was nine and his brother, eleven. That year they had both received matching plastic torpedo run sleds. Brother’s had been blue and the other was black. They had gone out that holiday afternoon and tobogganed until it was dark outside. They both had completely missed Christmas dinner. Their Dad had given them a stern look on their return but their Mother had understood and kept their plates warm in the oven. Boys would be boys.
Their Mother had taken the photo in the morning and had placed it among the Christmas tree branches. It had been taken down with the decorations after New Year’s and languished all these years. Father hadn’t seen it since. The picture may have been long forgotten but the memory of the yule sledding still resonated.
Father looked up to see his own son’s face. There was worry or confusion in the boy’s look.
“Wrong?” was all the son could think to ask.
“Absolutely not,” was Father’s short reply. He felt like Mother after she had opened the five pointed star. He didn’t weep but his eyes were moist and he lowered his head to look at the photo again.
His male offspring had put a great deal of time and effort to make the two brothers from the snapshot look like they’d just had their photo take that morning. The son had not chosen an inexpensive frame either. If Father could have squeezed it up on the mantel next to the ceramic Christmas monkey he surely would have tried. Instead he held it tightly with white knuckles and vowed to put it above the fireplace after Christmas with the other pictures and items that had been removed to make place for the holiday display.
The rest of the family opened their gifts. Father stared intently at his younger self and his now estranged brother. How could two close members of a family have drifted so far apart? He thought on that for the rest of the evening. He lay awake long in the night ruminating on the question. In the morning he still continued to ponder the issue.
After the Christmas day gifts had been opened and the festive brunch had finished, Father slipped away quietly and made two telephone calls.
The first was to his Mother to confirm that Christmas dinner was at two and he would drive over and pick her up at one. That way she’d have time to visit with the children. He told her about the photograph. She knew what was on his mind and was forthcoming with her other son’s number.
Father’s second phone call in private was to his brother. It was all kinds of awkward but the memory of the Christmas sleds urged him on. It became easier and the reminiscence of that all day toboggan ride was only one of the memories they shared.
Brother was in a relationship now. He was dating a woman with two sons of her own. He’d like to bring her and come for a visit in the New Year. Father said he’d like that. Old prejudices stayed buried. Brother provided his new address. Maybe Father and his brood could make it that way sometime? Father said he’d see.
Later when he picked up his Mother, Father helped her into his car and told her about the phone call to her other son. Mother patted him on the head and smiled. He was nine again and all was forgiven. This time he was keeping her dinner warm in the oven.
That evening, Father slipped away again. He closed his bedroom door and rooted out an old tin box from under the bed. Inside were many objects he once held special and dear.
There was the yo-yo he always longed to dominate. Beside that was a Hohner Comet harmonica one of the children had gifted him once on a Father’s Day. That, too, he still hoped to master. There were other things tossed loosely in the box, along with a handful of change of different denominations. Every coin was something he once thought important for some reason or other. Now, he couldn’t recall why.
At the very bottom of the box lay a single article wrapped in aluminum foil. It was the hockey card he had liberated from his brother’s pack. That part of the legend was true but he’d never attached it to his bicycle. He’d used a playing card instead. The card had been held and treasured by Father. The image of the player was not familiar. He only recognized the name of the team. It probably held no value…except to him.
Father gently removed the card and took it to the kitchen table. There were some unused festive cards in a box on top of the refrigerator. He wrote one out to his brother and wished him a Merry Christmas and then signed his name. He enclosed the card and then scribbled his sibling’s new address on the envelope. Two days later he took it to the post-office and dispatched it on.
Early in January, Father received a reply. The holiday card inside was from his brother. He had scratched out Merry Christmas and penned in Happy New Year. He’d signed it with love. Enclosed was a quarter. Father eventually placed the coin in his metal box. He’d always remember where this one came from and why he kept it.
The exchange had been completed.
One and done.
THE END
Tags: Christmas, Christmas Story, False Ducks, Scott Henderson