This time of year, a common practice is gifting, giving something to someone without expecting anything in return. It can be a watercolor drawing of the sunset, a crocheted blanket, a handwritten poem, fixing up the garage, or shoveling snow off a roof. One can also buy just the right gift for their loved ones, from a bicycle for a child, tickets to a concert for a teenager, or the trendiest gifts of 2024, which, according to Google, are wireless earbuds, travel backpacks, sunglasses, and Lego succulents. Who knew?
I enjoy this tradition, always buying or making more than enough. My born-in-the-depression-mother always used to say, “It’s better to have too much than too little.” She meant food, of course, but I extended that to mean gifts, too.
It started in what I now call my worst Christmas ever. I was ten. That year, the town I lived in was going through its’ ghost-town era as the primary mine had closed. My stepfather lost his job. My mother sought work at the remaining grocery store, stocking shelves and cashiering. My stepfather picked up a few odd jobs to supplement—caretaking the apartment complex we lived in then, fixing up cars, and helping here and there at the neighboring gas station. We got by. It was rough. In those days, the eighteen-mile road to the community was not yet paved and sat in the middle of two distant towns, each two hundred or more miles away. When the town ghosted, there were fewer deliveries –fresh milk and eggs were difficult to get.
My mother started saving, hoping to have a few nice gifts under the tree that year. She stuffed them in her closet, behind her dresses, stacked on top of one another. How would I know that? Well, once I noticed her coming in from work with some packages.
“What are those?” I asked.
“None of your business,” my mother replied rather briskly.
I watched as she closed the door to her room. Skirr. Crinkle. Scrunch. Scrunch. The sounds of moving things around. When she came out, she pointed her finger in my direction. “Do not go into my closet.” She looked me in the eye. “I mean it.”
So, what did I do the next time my parents were out and my younger siblings weren’t around? I opened that closet door. Creak. Pushed my mom’s clothes away. Swoosh. Holy Cow! All sorts of boxes piled on one another—small, medium, and big. They weren’t wrapped. I couldn’t resist. I’ll just take a quick peek. But it didn’t turn out that way. I wasn’t interested in what my brothers and sister were getting. I only wanted to know if I was getting what I wanted. A transistor radio. It was there. I took it out of the box, felt it, and delicately placed it back, careful not to disturb any surrounding tissue. It was seductive. I searched for more and found two more of my gifts. Wow, so much fun! I went to bed, knowing exactly what I’d get for Christmas.
However, when Christmas morning came, and we all sat around opening gifts, my siblings exclaiming in glee at theirs, all I felt was defeat—a letdown. My mother’s face beamed as she watched the littles.
She glanced in my direction. “Don’t you like your gifts?”
“Oh, yes, yes. It’s just…” My words trailed off. I couldn’t tell her I had sneaked into her closet after she told me implicitly not to.
“It’s just what?”
“Oh, nothing.” I tried to smile, to be happy, but the truth was I wasn’t. I couldn’t even muster enough joy in watching my family receive their gifts. I knew what they were getting weeks ago.
I learned a great lesson. It’s not what’s inside the box that matters. It’s the gifting. It’s not knowing. It’s to be a person of your word. It’s honoring other people’s privacy.
Since that day, I haven’t shaken packages under the tree to discover what may be in them. I don’t try to determine what my loved ones may have purchased or made for me. I don’t read other people’s diaries or personal journals, including those of my kids when they grew up. And all my Christmases since have been happy, no matter what may or may not be under the tree.
Merry Christmas. Feliz Navidad. Joyeux Noel. Merry Keshmish. Have a good Chrissy. A blithe yule. Subh Krismas …
“For it is in the giving that we receive.” St. Francis of Assisi
Enjoy the Passage of Time.
Sharon
© 2024. Sharon Kreider. All Rights Reserved.
