From The Trenches
The season in which we secretly experience what I call hathos. The opposite of pathos, hathos is that harmless distaste we feel for those annoyingly well-organized people who smugly announce that their Christmas shopping is done in July and who have their tree up and decorated in time for Halloween.
Theyï¿½re the people you love in the spring for organizing the neighborhood Easter egg hunt and admire in the summer for putting together a barbecue that would feed a Third World country. But by December 1st, you just loathe them. With affection, of course. And in truth, the only thing you loathe is their carefully compiled gift list with meticulous checkmarks by all the names.
But if you, like I, think itï¿½s tough to find the perfect presents for Aunt Mildred (you canï¿½t regift that scarf back to her) or your spouse (hint: no appliances and no cooking gear) or your siblings (you canï¿½t give them slippers every year), think how tough they have it.
Theyï¿½re buying for a collector. That has got to be the most daunting gift-giving proposition of all. Your tastes and preferences are well honedï¿½and completely mysterious to the noncollector. Your interests are well understood by you but an enigma to others. And your collection? You know exactly where the holes are in it and what upgrades you desire, but your loved ones are faced with nearly inevitable failure should they try to suss that out on their own.
With that in mind, weï¿½ve put together some affordable gift suggestions for your noncollecting family and friends in this issue. If you agree with any of the suggestions, you can always go the subtle route by circling appropriate selections with a red marker and leaving it open on that page in a spot that only a blind squirrel could miss.
But enough about gifts, for that is not, as we all know, what Christmas is really about. Even when I was a child, itï¿½s not what Christmas was all about. No, it was about the anticipation of gifts.
I was one of those irritating kids who let the gift-wrapped presents pile up in front of me. While everyone else was tearing into presents with a combination of glee and greed and surprised delight, there I sat with unopened gifts, feeling that warm glow of expectation.
Iï¿½m not saying the expectation was always better than the reality. There was the year I got my beloved battery-operated choo-choo train and proceeded to send it on its appointed rounds, chipping the paint off every baseboard in the house. What cheerfully destructive fun.
As an adult, there was the Christmas I opened a box to find a Model 1915 Prussian jï¿½ger zu pferde helmetï¿½granted, not a gift that every gal wants, but I was thrilled.
On reflection, Iï¿½ve scored some terrific swag over the years, resistant as I was to even opening anything. Iï¿½m abashed to admit that I still do that. Last year when the pile of unopened stuff in front of me had assumed alarming proportions, the publisher said in exasperation, "Seriously? Will you just open something?"
The Christmas booty itself has always been secondary to the anticipation of what it might beï¿½sort of the ghost of Christmas Future.
Iï¿½m equally fond of the ghost of Christmas Past, and my happiest holiday memories donï¿½t have anything to do with what went right. No, theyï¿½re all about what went magnificently wrong.
Like the Christmas my mother, a world-class pie baker, forgot to put sugar in the key lime pie. It was like eating alum, and as the rest of us dissolved in helpless laughter, one well-brought-up guest soldiered on as though nothing was wrong: "Thith ith weally egthellent pie."
Like the year my sister got up before anyone else and switched the tags on our presents from Santa because, really, Santa wouldnï¿½t be around to bust her for another year. Santa wisely decided to stay silent on the matter, and all things became horrifyingly clear to my sister within a year or two. I donï¿½t remember that, of course, but I remember the Christmas 25 years later when she confessed to the crime and gave me a vintage replacement doll for the one I was supposed to get.
Like the year my car, packed full of gifts, siezed up on the way to my parentsï¿½ house and I was rescued by total strangers who saw me safely back home. That may not be an overall fond memory, but it was instructive: It was the year I found out that spending Christmas home alone in oneï¿½s jammies and watching old movies is not the delicious experience we annual on-the-roaders tend to imagine it might be.
This year I fully expect to give a number of people a fond holiday memory of things gone wrong. As I write this, plans are under way for me to host 25 people for dinner.
The oven will die. Or I will leave the plastic giblet bag in a turkey. Or I will drop a key lime pie on the floor (intentionally, if I forgot to put sugar in it).
Whatever disaster occursï¿½"Clean up on aisle five!"ï¿½it should keep all of us in stiches for years at the memory of it.
And I, wrapped in Aunt Mildredï¿½s outsize scarf, will laugh along with everyone else because the hilariously haywire is always one of the most welcome ghosts of Christmas Present.
I wish you reflection, anticipation, and an appreciation for all things present on this most hopeful and holy holiday. ï¿½Ed.
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