The morning of December 18th, a Sunday, I stepped out onto my doorstep like I do every day to pick up my newspaper, the Columbus Dispatch. To my surprise, lying there beside the local rag was another Sunday paper, the New York Times. The Grey Lady. All The News That's Fit To Print. "Cool!" I thought to myself. "A delivery mistake, but it's mine now." And I quickly stepped back inside, hoping its rightful owner hadn't noticed me.
Per usual, I finished the few worthwhile parts of the Dispatch in about 10 minutes, then spent a couple hours perusing the Sunday Times, all the while enthusing to my wife about how great it was, compared to my shitty local. "The articles! The columns! And look -- the Times Sunday Crossword!" (At this point, I very well may have been drinking, but I was still pretty pumped up about a friggin' newspaper.)
Mrs. Gammons told me she was glad I liked it, or words to that effect. But her tone of voice was saying, "You are an easily amused, simple sumbitch, aren't you?" Well, yeah, maybe, but I'm gonna enjoy this happy mistake.
This Sunday, Christmas morning, there it was again -- another NY Times. How strange. Another mistake? Is the delivery guy blind? Illiterate? Maybe it's a promotion. Maybe it's . . .
No time to ponder because it was time to open our handful of presents. The wife handed me a small box and insisted I open it first. It would, she said, "explain something." So I opened it, unaware of anything requiring explanation. Inside the box was a printout of her gift to me -- of course! -- a subscription for home delivery of the Sunday Times. (You probably saw that coming. I did not.)
She had tried to arrange for delivery to begin -- surprise! -- on Christmas morning, but the first one came a week early. Not to worry. Buster is reliably oblivious to such clues, so it was still very much a surprise. A great newspaper, and a very thoughtful gift. Thank you, dear! I love you.
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