JUST PAINT A HAPPY LITTLE TOASTER RIGHT HERE

My youngest brother and I share a running joke exchange over Bob Ross.

Yes, that Bob Ross. The one who paints. Well, the one who painted because Bob Ross died in 1995 (on my birthday, as a matter of fact). 

Randomly throughout the year, Bob Ross themed trinkets will suddenly be sent or received between the two of us. This Christmas, while mired in a series of personal scheduling conflicts, fun family stuff, and unexpected disasters (illness, blown up car, blown up computer, babysitting, extended commuting, new car, etc.), I end up epic failing at gift giving. So, I never get to the stage where Bob Ross is in play.

From my end, anyway.

As Christmas packages arrive for me at home, I merely have time to throw them under the small tree and hope for sanity as the holiday bears down. On Christmas Day, I run out of the house to the rented SUV, spend the day several towns away, and arrive home after dark. It isn't until mid-evening that I even look at the presents under the tree.

I open gifts from students and from coworkers, from my Secret Santa, from friends. Finally, I get to my little brother's box of whatever it may be. He's not my Secret Santa this year, so he shouldn't be sending anything, but we all (there are four of us remaining) tend to send stocking gifts and occasional joke gifts or inspirational gifts to each other. 

I carefully undo the mailing box to reveal something else inside. Another box. There is another box in here that is way too big to fit into my stocking. Knowing my brother, it could be anything. Literally. Anything.

I unwrap the paper and am delighted to see that Bob Ross has struck again.

I will say this: Not only did Bob Ross paint lovely, happy trees and some magnificent landscapes, but he makes a heck of an impression on my toast.

Cheers!