Not Quite Everything

Wayne, my father-in-law, used to do all or most of his Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. There may have been many different reasons why he did this (scheduling, procrastination, wanting to avoid the crowds, the attractive unconventional nature of it), but whatever the reason it was efficient. He would get several of the same shirt or coveralls in various sizes for his three sons and me. I don’t remember what he got his daughters and daughters-in-law (tricky plural placement), as I was way too self-centered back then. However, I will never forget one of the gifts he gave me, because I still have it.

About twenty-five years ago Wayne got all the guys (we were young men then) identical maroon/red/wine/burgundy (some such color) sweatshirts. I don’t know what the other guys did with theirs, but I still have mine and it proudly shows its age.

The scripted “Minnesota” on the left breast has faded with the rest of the fabric, but all the letters are still there. The cuffs and high, three-button collar are tattered, but the buttons have hung on through the years; the elbows have thinned and the shirt itself has lost some of its form, while the function has improved. Even though holes have appeared out of nowhere and the seams are beginning to separate, I won’t part with it. I don’t own a more comfortable article of clothing or one I am more attached to.

I won’t throw it away, and neither would my wife, Rhonda, as she remembers who gave it to me. She washes it by hand as it still bleeds a rosy color. I have often wondered what goes through her mind when she washes that shirt. Does the need to hand-wash it annoy her? Is she secretly hoping I will forget about it and she can discard it? Does she think of her father as the water turns color? Does her heart bleed a little?

Her Dad has been gone for seventeen years. I miss him and I know Rhonda does too. I wonder if any of the gifts that I give will still linger when I’m gone. I would not guess a sweatshirt – but there it is proving me wrong.

The wrong gift is quickly discarded and forgotten, maybe even bringing some disdain with it. But even the right gift may not have the staying power to survive decades of stress and hand-wringing.

Toys break, cash is spent, and we eventually forget about most everything else. There is also the problem of what to get the person who has everything? The answer is you get them nothing – well almost nothing.  You often hear older, mature (more mature than me) adults say, “Don’t buy me anything, I have everything I need.” I remember hearing my grandmother say that.

In my mind I will never be as old as my grandparents appeared to be, but as I think about my own children and grandchild I know what I want from them – nothing that money can buy. I selfishly crave their time and love, and I freely offer mine. I have appreciated all of the gifts I have received over the years, but they are no match for the memories, time and love shared.

A friend of mine wrote me and said that he needed to find a gift for his wife soon, as he doesn’t want to be shopping at Kwik Trip on Christmas Eve. Sometimes those last-minute gifts can last a lifetime, but just to be safe better throw in some love and time.

It's a Gift

In this season of giving I try to increase what I do to help around the house. In addition to making the bed a couple times a week, placing my dishes in the dishwasher, and putting my clothes away after my wife, Rhonda, washes them, I now look for other ways to help – at least at Christmas time. I guess I should thank Miriam at the coffee shop for this.

Miriam, a pleasant woman a decade or so wiser than me, asked me a few weeks ago if I was ready for Christmas. I knew what she meant; at least I thought I did. She may have meant spiritually, emotionally, or my guess – physically.  I said I was, but then admitted that I really don’t have that much to do because my wife does most of the work preparing for the big day.

She suggested that I could volunteer. I thought she meant I should volunteer at a soup kitchen or some other charitable venture, so I told her that I would be ringing a bell with a few friends for the Salvation Army. 

“That’s nice,” Miriam said, “but I meant that you could volunteer to help your wife get ready for Christmas.”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” I said, surprised by the very idea of it.

So, motivated by my new mission, I began to look for ways to help. Normally, I clear the driveway and shovel the snow off the steps and sidewalk, but this year the warm temperatures have made that unnecessary, so I cleaned the garage instead. Rhonda never even noticed.

This year I carried several boxes of Christmas decorations upstairs from the basement after being asked only once. It’s not quite the same as volunteering – but it does have the same cooperative feel to it.  I did this in between periods of the Wild game.

I also try to keep up on the TV listings to make sure we have an opportunity to watch the Christmas shows. We have Charlie Brown, Rudolph and the other classics on DVD, VHS or 8mm but it still pays to see what else might be playing.  I also make sure to have Christmas music on in the background.  It’s those subtle touches that make the holiday special. It’s another way I help out around the house.

When Rhonda couldn’t find the barn her Grandpa had made for a nativity scene, I volunteered to find it without being asked. I found the miniature barn in our barn; it was near the one my brother-in-law and nephew had made to provide temporary shelter for the ceramic nativity scene my mother had made. My family has a long tradition of displaying the Holy Family at Christmas. I didn’t manage to find the manger however.

One night last week I peered over my newspaper and saw that Rhonda was addressing Christmas cards, so I offered to help. Considering my handwriting and wanting to make sure the addresses were legible, she suggested I help instead by buying stamps. So the next day I stood in line at the post office. There were half-a-dozen people ahead of me, and it took at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get my postage. Volunteering is hard work.

I do my share of the Christmas shopping too.  I have already purchased Rhonda’s gift, and have written checks for the two women in my office. I actually got my shopping done early this year. I’m not completely sure what gifts Rhonda has in mind for the kids – I’m sure I’ll find out though when they open them.

It has become obvious to me if it wasn’t for the unselfish nature of women, we wouldn’t have Christmas. Two thousand years ago a young woman named Mary gave birth to the King of Kings, giving us the greatest gift of all.

Annoyance

I spend too much of my time in a state of annoyance. I can do very little about some of the things that put me in a state of disturbance. The pills I get off the shelf to help me deal with my self-diagnosed hypersensitivity are not covered by insurance. But without them I go through the day (and night) quite uncomfortable as the itchiness comes with a vengeance.

Being self-aware and mindful of public perception, I am careful to not scratch and rub when others are in attendance. Other than a thoughtful beard rub, many erratic motions by a person can get that person removed from fine dining establishments and other places of importance.

I am unaware of being allergic to anything, but I am, however, keenly aware of things that throw me off balance. I don’t think loud noises, a drawer left open, or clothing that constricts qualify as allergens, yet they make me uncomfortable for instance.

Most often I am not bothered by an aroma or a fragrance. I also try not to judge a book based on its appearance. But, too often I am less patient with an acquaintance. It’s not that I feel superior or want to be perceived as having a unhealthy dose of arrogance. Rather, I find some traits and characteristics outside my current level of tolerance. I admit it’s not their fault, it’s my own petulance.

Someone who interrupts others in a conversation may be just trying to demonstrate their own significance. Certainly, if I keep that in mind I can exercise some tolerance. Even though it’s easier to change myself than others, occasionally all that is required is a little distance.

Also, I don’t like to hear another complain or speak a negative utterance. Although I pretend to be above such things, if I were to hear my own words, I couldn’t feign ignorance. It’s always easier to offer others suggestions and guidance. But with all our talking I doubt few of us would find any reflection of perfection in the mirror, not even a close resemblance.

If it isn’t obvious by now, let me point out that I have many faults and admit them with great reluctance. Along with the things that bother me I can obsess incessantly about something and get caught in a pattern of redundance. Clearly, I don’t want everyone to be like me, of that you have my assurance. Instead, I write about these things to point out my shortcomings and my need for your assistance.  

We are who we are for reasons that are not always obvious, and we need to celebrate our differences and not treat them as a poisonous substance. If being hypersensitive means that wool and people can rub me the wrong way, then I will serve it as my penance.

For those of you who somehow tolerate me and my uniqueness I offer my gratitude, albeit a small pittance. For those of you who have somehow managed to read this entire essay and have now reached the end I can hear you say, “Good Riddance!”

Santa

Santa waved at me last week, and it made me smile. I had gone to one of the malls a few days before Thanksgiving to check out a new store; I refuse to go shopping on Thanksgiving or the day after, as I can do without the mobs and mayhem. Black Friday is so unlike Santa.

It was during the early afternoon of a weekday, and I was standing by myself on one level looking down at the atrium below. Some festive folks were putting the finishing touches on the North Pole display, while Santa sat in his throne checking over his list.

Not wanting to disturb the seasonal scene, I stood there quietly watching while they worked. Santa, being a crafty old soul, must have sensed my presence. He froze, and then lifting his head he looked right at me. At first I felt a little foolish, as if I had been caught spying on him. Then Santa smiled and waved like we were old friends. He may have recognized me, although I can’t imagine how, as it has been such a long time since we sat and talked. I returned his wave.

Like other kids I had seen Santa in parades sitting in his chair on top of a float or riding on a fire truck. I saw him at malls all over the state and in small shacks in small towns. I have pictures to prove it. He didn’t always look the same though and the logistics of him being in so many places at the same time gave me reason to doubt, but Mom explained that it was his helpers or his elves filling in for him while he attended to other duties and obligations.

He would stop at our house on Church Street shortly after supper on Christmas Eve. Dad would take the kids out in the station wagon to look at the Christmas lights in town, and when we came back Santa had been there, somehow slipping past Mom and Colleen, my older sister. He even took time to eat part of a cookie, drink half a glass of milk, and scribble a quick thank-you before moving on to the next house. He also found us at our grandparents in Faribault and our cousins in Tucson.

As I got older Santa quit coming because I quit believing. But many years later he showed up again on Christmas Eve. This time it was to drop off a few things for my little girl and boy who were nestled all snug in their beds. True to form, Santa crumbled his cookie, spilled his milk and left a note.

I know there are good people who don’t want to share Christmas with Santa, but I am not one of them. I am thankful my parents had fun with me at Christmas, and I have no regrets in passing on that tradition to my children. But make no mistake; I believe that Christmas celebrates the birth of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It’s just that I feel there is room for a portly, generous elf to brighten children’s lives while they are still young enough to believe in a little magic. Let’s not wave good-bye to Santa too soon.