Adorned in ribbons and fancy paper. Wrapped in newspaper and tied with twine. Stamped "Fragile" and left by the postman. Or stuffed in a brown paper bag and hand delivered. Gifts given and received in all shapes, sizes and sentiment at this Holiday time of year are all special. It's taken a personal tragedy in my life this year, to reinforce my perception of true gifts, and none of them come wrapped or hand delivered. They're intangible, priceless and precious gifts only appreciated or "opened" when you allow your mind and heart to avert your vision.

As you gaze up at the night sky to locate a distant constellation; or stand in a field of red poppies trying to spy a single bluebonnet; or search for the face of your child amidst other apple-cheeked first graders in the school's Holiday choir......that's when you must avert your vision. You have to open your eyes ...wide... and take in the entire picture. Then, almost miraculously and unexpectedly, that which you seek stands out. Becomes clear and distinct.

When my father had a stroke this past fall, his life....my life...became unalterably changed. Each day was a struggle for both of us. One day's optimistic progress towards recovery, was dashed by his regression the next day. My garden became a blackened, frost-damaged morass of uncleared beds and toppled birdbaths.. Some days, I didn't dare glance at the pathetic, untended sight. It was out of my hands and in Mother Nature's care, I told myself. There were other priorities. I called upon that true faith of all gardeners, to reassure myself that even in the worst state of neglect, gardens have a remarkable stamina for survival and rejuvenation. I called upon the same faith for my father's recovery.

In the midst of the, sometimes, overwhelming responsibility of tending my father and planning his future care; the daily exhaustion, troubled sleep, slamming into walls of unanswered questions, advocating with mostly cooperative and some infuriating contacts; endless appointments and practically attached to the telephone,....in the midst of all this, I was reminded that within this vast night sky of stress , a tiny, priceless gift of respite sparkled. Faint. Yet brilliant if I averted my vision, if only for a moment, from the single focus of these troubled days.

Aleksandar was my father's roommate in rehabilitation. Aleksandar had also suffered a stroke. When his wife, Katarina, would visit, they would speak softly in a language foreign to me. We would nod to each other in passing, yet never spoke or even exchanged names. My father was my focal point, as I assumed Aleksandar was hers.

One afternoon, shuffling down to the cafeteria for my fifth cup of coffee, I glanced up to see Katarina. Though nearly 30 years my senior, she strode past and overtook me as I leaned against the wall for a momentary rest.

"Hi", I muttered. There was so little force in my voice, I doubted she heard me.

But, she turned, walked back to me and in not-quite broken English responded, "Hello. You are Linda, John's daughter. I see you here each day. Please forgive me for not speaking to you before. I did not want to intrude on your visits with him. It is nice to meet you. My name is Katarina."

Her smile and warmth drew me away from the support of the wall. Standing upright with just a hint of new found strength in my legs, I smiled down at the diminutive gray-haired woman with the sparkling, light blue eyes. I, too, apologized for not introducing myself before.

"I hope you don't mind my asking", I ventured, " but I've heard you and your husband speaking, and I was wondering if you were German?"

They were such soft-spoken, unassuming people, I could only barely make out the accent and thought I'd recognized some words. I'm not German myself, but over the years, I'd picked up a few phrases here and there.

"Ah, no. We are Yugoslavian. Aleksandar is Croatian and I am Serbian. I am a German national, but I was born Serbian."

At that moment, I sensed I was about to receive one of those precious gifts. One that would keeps on giving because I could share it with others. My favorite kind of gift. The gift of new knowledge and a human story.

Giving me a brief lesson in the Serbian alphabet, she informed me that there were no "x's" in her language which is why her husband's name is spelled with a "ks" instead of an "x". That explained what I thought had been a misspelling of his name on the printed identification tag outside their room. I inquired about her country. How long had she been in America? Did she have grandchildren? I began to feel a bit guilty for imposing so many questions upon someone I'd only just met. But, I quickly put aside any guilt, as she was so easily forthcoming and obviously willing to share and, graciously, presented my gift. I averted my vision, allowing my mind and heart to refocus and proceeded to open the package.

"With so much fighting and hatred there, it is strange that Serbian and Croatian could be married and happy, no? I can remember when I first knew I would marry to Aleksandar. I was only 8 and he was 15. He visit my grandmother's farm where she grew kukuroz pa nogometni lopta" (I asked her to write it down for me.)" Sorry. Corn and pigs. He was thirsty so he picks up ladle in the bucket of water and drink. My grandmother came from the house and scream at him that water in the bucket was for dinner. That now there would not be enough for all of family. You see, Linda, where she had farm, the well was many meters away and they carry the buckets, you know, one on each end of pole, all the way back from well for each day water to drink. Aleksandar was the from city and did not know this . He was so ashamed and sorry. He got two empty buckets and went down hill and came back with fresh water. But he went down again. And two more times, till it got too dark for him to see his way back. I knew then he was really good boy of respect. I tell him that. Then we became friends. He came back to grandmother's farm many times after and ...."

With a slight smile and lowering her eyes, she apologized for going on so much. I touched her arm and making direct eye contact, I entreated her to continue. Asking only if I was keeping her.

"Please, oh no. I have not talked with anyone here but nurses. They are kind, but always we talk about the same things. Nothing to help me think of something different . You know. To take a breath from all this. It is all most stressful. You know this, too. I am amazed that you would be so interested to know these things about an old woman."

I adamantly reassured her, "Oh, Katarina, you have no idea how interested I am." The rest of her story took a more somber tone as she lamented how she and Aleksandar came to seek asylum in America.

"After war, Yugoslavia deport all German nationals from the country. I was born in Germany, but my parents were both born Serbian. But, we all come home to Yugoslavia when I was tiny baby. But because I was born in Germany, that made me German national and so now I have to leave my home in Yugoslavia in 1946. Aleksandar could stay, but we are married then and so we leave together. They tell us we only take what we can carry. We live in England for a little bit, but we know that America is only place Aleksandar to make money as engineer. He is very smart man and this stroke has made him very sad. He is old, yes. But still very smart and strong. I know he is very frightened. But when he sees our grandchildren he is happy. He say to me yesterday, when the children are visiting that even though he is sad about this now, and even if he can no more do things like before, he is happy to know children and grandchildren can do and are all here because of him. He is proud of that."

It was all I could do not to fall into a heap of tears right there in the hallway. But, the last things either of us needed were more tears and depression. So, I tried to offer something uplifting and lighthearted.

"I think you had a little bit to do with that, Katarina!". Once again, she lowered her eyes and smiled. A bigger smile this time followed by a slight giggle.

I asked her if she ever thought of writing about her childhood experiences. How she met her husband and all that they'd been through. Did her children know of all these things? Or her grandchildren?

She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand, "Oh, they would not be interested. Young people don't want to know about old people's stories and far away country, too."

I took both her hands in mine and hoped she'd sense the sincerity in my voice, "Please believe me when I tell you this, Katarina. That would be a wonderful gift for them."

"After my mother passed away, I was so hungry for information about her childhood in Newfoundland. I searched and searched and grabbed on to any history of her background. What life was like back then in such a harsh environment. How she came to America. I wanted to know about my grandmother's and grandfather's family history. I wrote letters. Corresponded on the computer. Followed every lead I could. I wished I had asked her more questions about her life when she was alive. When I found the few small journals she had written over the years, first I cried, then I savored each and every word. I treasure them. It's like a living connection to her."

She was skeptical, but I could see a twinkle of interest in those blue eyes.."You really think they would like this 'gift', as you say?

"Katarina. The things you so kindly shared with me here today are a gift to me, and we hardly know each other. What a treasure to pass on to your grandchildren and great grandchildren. Would they like this gift? Trust me. There will come a time in their lives when they will be more grateful than you could ever imagine."

Distressed, she said, "But, I don't write good English, and they would never understand in Serbian."

I asked her if there was anyone in her family that could type. She put her hand to her chin, squinted those bright blue eyes and thought for a moment.

"My niece is professional medical writer", she mused. "She types doctor's notes. from recorder. Has to be very careful. How do you say? Precizan. Accurate."

Grinning from ear to ear and suddenly filled with energy I hadn't felt for weeks, I gestured with both hands in the air as in a cheer, nearly shouting, "That would be perfect! If you can ask one of your children to get you a small tape recorder. One you can hold in your hand. They aren't very expensive. Maybe as a Christmas gift. Then, when you remember something from your childhood, or something about your family in Yugoslavia and life on the farm, you can press the button and tell your story to the recorder. After that, your niece can type up what you've recorded."

I could tell I'd planted a seed of an idea in her mind when she looked up at me with the broadest of smiles and said, "Linda, you have made me excited to do this. I can remember many, many things I could say! I would have my niece typing a long time. And it is not a hard thing for me to talk if I can talk to machine. And then when I am not here anymore, and only memory to my family, maybe one of my grandchildren or their children will want to read this. It would be present or gift, as you say, for them from their old grandmother who is no longer here."

We hugged each other. One of those things you just find yourself doing because it just feels so right at the time. We both knew we had to get back. She to Aleksandar and I to my father. I no longer needed that caffeine boost.

Before entering their room, she stopped in the doorway and turned to me and whispered something in Serbian. (I asked her to write that down for me also.)

"Mir postojati s te. It means: Peace Be With You."

As I write this, I'm reminded of a framed poster in the lobby of the new rehabilitation center where my father continues to recover. In bold letters it says: "In A Sea Of Adversity, Lies An Island Of Opportunity" . I looked over those waters of distress and on an island of red poppies , my averted vision allowed me to see this bluebonnet. This connection with another human soul. I'd been gifted the privilege of having a total a stranger open her heart to me; share her experiences and etch in my mind things I would never have otherwise known. I believe such a meaningful gift only increases in value if it's shared. As I'm doing here.

Recalling Katarina helped in the days that would follow, by also reminding me of the unique specialness of our elderly citizens. They are living history. Fonts of wisdom and knowledge just by virtue of their individual lives. Gifts waiting to be opened and shared.

Like Antonio. An Italian immigrant who now resides in an adjacent nursing facility. Antonio, who cares for the parrots in the lobby. Whose family raised Merino sheep in his native Calabria, Italy since the 1700's and cornered the early market on Merino wool imports to Britain and how he raised 400 carrier pigeons as a young man and lent them to the U.S. government for service in WWII, only losing 8 of them and when the government offered compensation for his loss, he declined saying it was the least he could do for his adopted country and besides, no money could replace even one of his beloved birds.. How he told me that east-west flying messenger pigeons won't fly north to south and vice versa and... Well, that another gift for another day.

May You Receive Such Priceless Gifts Throughout The Year. They are there. Waiting. You just have to open yourself to recognize and receive them and "Mir postojati s te."