Grandma's stockings still bring holiday joy

Grandma May was a mad knitter. She'd finish the last loop on a sweater and already be unwinding a ball of yarn for the next.

Everyone in our family had a drawer full of DIY Grandma-wear, as did the pets and even our childhood stuffed animals.

Her talent was a mixed blessing. Grandma May's penchant for a bargain meant that most of her gifts were made with scratchy acrylic yarn from the dime store, in colors such as dandelion yellow or fire engine red.

But where she really shone was the Christmas stocking. Hers were large enough to conceal a 3-year-old, with our name knit into the top and our birth year on the toe. Some were decorated with Santa popping out of the chimney, snowflakes falling on Christmas trees or airborne sleds piled with gifts.

Mine had a paunchy St. Nick walking on a roof, smoking a pipe.

Best of all, they were stretchy.

Every year, starting around Thanksgiving, my younger brother and I began the stretching process, sticking both legs in them and pulling so eventually Grandma May's Christmas stocking was a good 4 feet long.

"OK, one at a time, and nobody gets hurt!" my aunt Laura would instruct, eyeing all the cousins on Christmas morning with their hands poised over the bulging stockings. Grandma just sat there on her corner of the sofa, knitting and smiling.

We each took an initial turn, then clawed at our loot, creating a confetti blender in the living room.

Hotel soap! Coupons for ice cream! Chiclets! Spiderman Band-Aids! A deck of cards!

It wasn't so much what was in there, it was that we got so excited about it. Grandma May tucked things into hidden corners of her house all year waiting for this moment. Each stuffer was individually wrapped and tied with a bow. There were hundreds.

Last year, I dug my stocking out of the garage and returned to Grandma May's in Pacific Grove for Christmas. She died in 1997, but Aunt Laura lives there now with her family.

The tree sparkled with tinsel. Cranberry candles scented the room. The stockings, hung from the mantel, almost touched the floor. Except one.

Last in line was a sad, thin, synthetic drugstore stocking, barely big enough to hold a football. David, born in 1998, is the only cousin who never met Grandma May.

I waited until he took the dog for a walk, and swapped his sad sock with a look-alike Grandma May stocking I had secretly knitted for him.

"Is that for me?" he squealed.

He yanked it from the hearth, put it on his head, and spun around.

Then he stuck his foot in it and pulled.

"I can get so much more stuff now!"

I sat on Grandma May's side of the sofa, watched his stretching technique, and smiled.

E-mail Meredith May at mmay@sfchronicle.com.

This article appeared on page YW - 4 of the San Francisco Chronicle