I read somewhere that
we have the Magi to thank for the tradition of bearing gifts at
this time of the year, but I suspect that like many other Christmas
customs, gift giving has its roots in pagan times. Surely the
Celts' celebration of winter solstice, or the Saturnalia of ancient
Rome, or other assorted gatherings of the ancient world included
the giving and receiving of gifts. It's an urge deeply imbedded
in human nature. For that matter, anyone who has ever received
a dog's gift of a proudly retrieved stick, or, from a cat, the
much less welcome gift of the remains of a mouse or bird left
on the master's doorstep, knows that gift giving extends to the
rest of the animal world, too.
I once knew an outrageous
and utterly charming elderly woman who, at parties, would hold
us young folk spellbound by reciting the provenance of her dazzling
jewelry collection. "Now this brooch," she would say, pointing
to a spray of diamonds, "was the gift of a maharajah who admired
tall women. And the ear bobs came from Lord La-Di-Dah, who scandalized
the New York Navy Ball in 1913 by dancing every other dance with
me, all evening long." And then, fixing us with a piercing look,
she'd grin wickedly. "I've always heard that it is more blessed
to give than to receive, but don't you think receiving is a lot
more fun?"
There have been lots
of memorable Christmas gifts in my life, both given and received.
I remember vividly that the year I was six, I noticed my mother's
fondness for a musical powder box that stood on the cosmetics
counter of our local drugstore. I relayed the information to my
father, who then hatched a rather intricate plan whereby my brother
would somehow distract my mother while he and I purchased the
music box. The store even wrapped our gift, and to this day I
can see the bright blue paper, covered with winking white Santa
faces in red hats - perhaps a patriotic nod to wartime, all that
red white and blue. Somehow we sneaked the parcel out of the drugstore
and into the car, and then into the house where I was allowed
to hide it under my skirted dresser. Our collusion was even more
thrilling than the present, I think, but Mother cried most satisfactorily
when she opened it. The music box sat on her dresser for more
than fifty years.
I remember the Christmas
that I was wild to have a bike. I was seven years old, and the
world was at war, which meant that metal and rubber products went
to military uses. No one was making toys or bicycles. Somehow
my mother found a secondhand bike that she painted a hideous yellow
and put under the tree. I can still recall my dismay when I saw
it. It was a bike, all right, and I didn't mind that it had a
few dents or that the paint was still sticky in some places. But
it was a boy's bike, a smaller version of my brother's, not at
all what I had had in mind. I felt like crying, but I knew I couldn't.
So I put a good face on it, and rode the darned bike all over
the neighborhood and dared anyone to laugh at me. No one did,
probably because we were all making do with what we had, in those
days. And a couple of years later, when the war was over, there
was another bike under the tree, this time a dazzling, brand new
blue and red girl's bike with a basket and a bell.
There were homemade
presents, too. One of my grandmothers had a wealthy aunt who showed
up occasionally to take her for drives in a chauffeured burgundy
Lincoln. The auntie always brought a box of See's candy "for the
children." When we had demolished the candy, my grandmother would
save the box, and every Christmas, each of us would receive a
See's candy box from Grandma. No matter how you prayed that this
time it would hold candy, you opened it and found stuffed prunes.
Grandma had filled the prunes with chopped dates and nuts, a sticky,
cloying mixture that she further sweetened by rolling the prunes
in powdered sugar. I always said a polite thank you, and disposed
of them when no one was looking by throwing them over the steep
edge of the hill on which we lived. Almost sixty years later,
my father and I were reminiscing and laughing about those prunes,
and suddenly he said: "I'd give a lot to have one now," and just
as suddenly, we both were crying.
Another well-meant
homemade present was a pair of itchy, hand-knitted bed socks,
which were supposed to keep your feet warm while you slept. I,
who never had any trouble with cold feet, would don them obediently
so that Grandma could see that I wore them, and then, as soon
as I was under the covers, kick them off and relegate them to
the furthest bottom corner of the bed.
It's embarrassing
to think back over the sheer volume of presents I've received
over the years. A few stand out: a beautiful, winter-white skirt
of soft wool embroidered with pale blue and silver snowflakes
that I longed for but knew we couldn't afford, that turned up
miraculously anyway...an opal ring that my great aunt had promised
me when I was sixteen...from my husband, a pair of books by Carmen
Bernoz de Gasthold, the first Christmas we were married...a present
my eldest son selected all by himself for me when he was about
eight, blue ornament earrings paid for from his allowance...the
Double Crostic books another son gives me yearly...a copy of "Babar
The King" in French, brought me by my adult middle son...photos
of my grandchildren taken and compiled into a little book by my
clever daughter-in-law.
But the very best gifts
that we have both given and received aren't gifts that can be
wrapped. When my children were small, we lived several hundred
miles away from their grandparents and great grandmother. Each
year, we would pack up the children and the presents and drive
11 hours to spend the holiday with them. It was the best gift
we could offer.
Our own children gave
us the same gift, traipsing across country with their three small
children so that Grandma and Grandad and Great Grandmary would
have a Merry Christmas. This summer they moved East, and are now
just 90 miles away, so their trip will be considerably shorter.
But I remember how hard it is to leave one's own Christmas tree,
and how inconvenient it is to travel with children. It's still
a considerable sacrifice to leave home on Christmas Day. It is,
however, what families do for each other. Their presence is without
any question the best present in the world.
