Joy To The Merry Ho Ho Ho

I've pinpointed the exact moment when Christmas stopped being a time of Wondrous Joy and started becoming a Season of Dread. It was the day one of my relatives, having given very exacting instructions for the Christmas gift he wanted, coolly handed it back to me. Though I had tried my best, I had gotten one of the details wrong and he blithely assured me I would have no trouble exchanging the item in question.

Such a far cry from my first gift giving experience.

I was five. Grandfather had come for a visit and he asked me what I was giving my parents for Christmas. I was shocked! Shocked right down to my frilly socked toes. The idea that a child should give her parents something for Christmas was a bizarre and outlandish notion. After wrestling with the idea, I seized upon the most obvious obstacle. Funds. Specifically: lack of.

Grandfather was not insensitive. Five year olds are seldom trusted with more than a shiny new dime and dimes didn't buy a whole lot back in the sixties. Even shiny dimes. Riding the tidal wave of good feelings induced by "special" eggnog, my normally scrooge-like Grandfather (favorite advice: "Pinch a penny until it turns into a nickel") actually ponied-up some folding money. A whole dollar.

The world was my oyster.

Now the hard work had to begin. What to buy the great Gods of the household? Dear lord they had only to open their own wallets for vast sums to appear magically enabling them to buy anything their hearts desired (I believe my father was pulling down the vast sum of $8,000 a year.)

I knew what I wanted. Toys. Dolls. Candy. Cookies. Anything sugar-related, in fact. Lipstick like Mommy's. Puppies. Kittens. Bunnies. Paint. Crayons. Tricycles. A Casper-the-Friendly-Ghost doll with a head like cement that my mom was afraid to let me have for fear of my new little brother's life. It would have been so easy to shop for myself.

But my parents' needs and desires were a great mystery to me. Frightening even, to think that they had unmet desires. And it didn't help that my Father's stock answer was, "A new Jaguar." and my mother's stock answer was, "A hug from you, precious girl." Somewhere in between these two extremes was the perfect gift to be purchased with one dollar.

Grandfather and I went shopping. I wish I could remember all the items considered and rejected; no doubt the list would be amusing. But I know for sure the item that was eventually decided upon because my mother still has it. A bright red candle in a white, milk-glass holder. I believe that the holder was meant to become a candy dish after the candle was burnt, but we will never know because my mother never allowed a match to touch the sacred wick. It sits today in a cupboard in my mother's house in all its pristine glory, awaiting the moment when Christmas decorations come out and take over the living room. A mere forty-two years old this Christmas.

I wish I could recapture some small part of that thrilling pride when Christmas morning arrived at our house and I was able to hand over the misshapen little package and say, "This is for you, Daddy and Mommy." Recapture the beaming smiles they gave me in return for that poor little gift. Recapture the love that filled that Christmas morning so long ago.

Soon, armed with my list, I will brave the hoards and go out into the malls to start my Christmas shopping. I will try hard to remember that this is not a chore but a chance to share the love at Christmas. If only that five year old was here to help me.