The beads of sweat begin forming on my brow with the first distinctive autumn breeze. The thought hits me like a snowball to the face: Christmas.
I am aware that it is a blessed holiday, and many humans on the planet take much pleasure in preparing for the season. For me, that slight hint of air current reminds me that “noel” will be rushing toward me faster than a pack of reindeer headed back to the North Pole barn.
The ritual begins before the first jack-o’-lantern is carved. Catalogs stack up in the mailbox with models dressed in green satin and white flannels; toolboxes with ribbons and bicycles with bows crowd the pages. Television ads roll glamorous scenes of luxury automobiles pulling away from black-tie affairs. Other ads depict tough people in rugged trucks driving up a hillside to the edge of a remote cliff, where you can picture yourself looking out on the sunset of your financial balance.
It isn’t that I don’t like giving gifts or that I’m without the means to do so; my cup of good fortune has been generous and steady. The same issue every year is what to give. Find the elusive perfect gift that won’t be set aside and doomed to sit on a Goodwill store shelf.
Once Thanksgiving is over, retailers are decking the halls with boughs of holly, setting the stage for their annual shakedown, welcoming consumers to help their year-end balances. It’s “Blank Friday” for me. That’s what my list looks like as we set off to the races or, more accurately, the demolition derby known as the mall parking lot.
Courtesy is just a rumor, and the season’s delight is offset with backstories of dashes to the last parking space. Multitudes engage in frightful rushes to the latest must-have gadget. Yuletide carols mix with the static backdrop of “I was here first!” I elbow my way to a respectable harvest of packages, thankful to have all limbs attached, happy I’m able to extend my thoughtfulness to those I love.
• • •
Of course, decorations are in order. Dutifully, I pull open the door to the storage closet under the stairs. My first move is to bump my head as I crouch and begin lugging out all the stuff marked “Xmas.” Boxes of ornaments, angel figurines, leftover greeting cards, mushed rolls of wrapping paper, and assorted snowmen and Santas of all sizes and hard-to-store shapes flood out like school kids bursting from class for the holiday break.
At the bottom of the stack is the old lawn-mower box, now tasked with keeping the tree parts together. Inside, the color-coded branches pretend to be ready to be assembled. Perspiration forms on my neck as I once again put together the worn “evergreen.” The so-called tree seems “hell bent” on being contrary and tips over. At last, the crooked sapling imposter stays in its assigned space, leaning ever slightly on the corner walls.
Of all the yearly decorations, the lights seem to resent being packed away the most. They project a palpable spirit of revenge, as the half-dozen boxes sit on the table as if in defiance, waiting to test my “string them up” skills. Barely legible markings offer little help in determining which carton offers the best chance of successfully illuminating a gala glow with the least amount of struggle.
Determined to conquer my festive kingdom, I dig in with dim hope and false courage. I open the most promising box of the suspicious bunch. I begin to coax the lights out of their incarceration as peaceably as possible, but no matter how carefully I rolled them in the year before, I always forget which end to unravel first. I start with a delicate tug, followed with a polite pull, and then with a mighty yank, out they flow in a twisted tumble and pile into a heap onto the tiled floor.
By now, the family is hunkered down behind the couch as I tap into my reserve of foul words. I begin circling the misfit lights around their partner in crime, while contemplating their shipment off to the Island of Misfit Toys. I call on their deep-seated need to be loved, and, at last, they hang around the tree like a row of convicts waiting for inspection, daring me to reach over and straighten the line. I take a knee and untwist my nerves. I hear, “Daddy, here is the pretty angel for the top.”
At last, everything is just so—the candles are on the mantel, the wreaths are hung, and the garland is spread all over like a December blizzard. The assorted snowmen are placed all around, and Santa Claus figures occupy strategic locations where he is always watching.
• • •
Just as I set my sights on the couch, “Honey, can you run a couple of errands?” rattles my ear like a third grader’s trumpet lesson. It’s another list. “Of course, dear.” I plot my course like a sailor headed out to sea. I proceed to the other side of the tracks for beer and wine at the cut-rate liquor store. The next stop is Mac’s Meat Market for steaks and bologna. The strip mall has the dessert shop for pies, crescent rolls and breakfast cinnamon buns. The Highlands Galleria has craft booths for stocking stuffers. I’ll take the backstreets over to the grocery to get some milk, cranberries, eggnog and ginger ale for the kiddie cocktails. Finishing my voyage, I’ll resupply the pet treats at Animal Emporium.
My fuel gauge was sinking faster than you can hit the deck walking on a patch of ice, so I darted in to GetGo for a refill. I hopped out, selected premium grade for better mileage, and pulled the trigger.
As I leaned on my car watching the gallons and price meter flow, I heard a loud muffler, loosely attached to a lemonade yellow Buick lurching into the drive. It heaved to a stop with a loud bang next to pump No. 7. The right rear hubcap was missing, and a slight windshield chip was spreading across the glass and into the driver’s field of vision. The bumper seemed held on by a washed-out American flag sticker that proclaimed: “United We Stand, Divided We Fall.”
The Buick’s driver squeezed out her door and approached the pump. My trigger clicked as I heard her exasperated groan, “See the cashier.” With a sharp glance my direction, she grabbed her purse and told her kids to stay in the car. She frowned and slumped her shoulders on the way to “see the cashier” as the plaza speakers blared “Joy to the World.”
I’d earned a snack with my chores, so I headed inside to browse the assortment of indulgences. As the Buick’s driver stood in line, watching out the door toward her car and kids, I picked up Big Grab chips and a Big Gulp soda and took my place in line behind her.
“Your card was rejected,” the clerk flatly replied after the woman explained her troubles with pump 7. She glanced out the door, then around to everyone in the GetGo who was glancing back at her. “He must have taken that $10 this morning,” she muttered to herself as she shuffled the items in her purse and searched the pockets of her burger chain smock, coming up empty on any spare change. She glanced out the door again as the lifeless voice of the clerk indicated that she’d have to step aside if she wasn’t going to make a purchase.
The people in the line behind me cleared their throats and shuffled from one foot to the other as the woman murmured that she was going to be late for her shift and kept looking for what obviously was not there. She shuffled away sideways from the counter, paralyzed in her need, searching in her purse, looking out the door and appearing as though she was about to cry. The patrons brushed past her at last, hurrying home to watch the big game.
I looked at the items in my hand, realized they cost more than she’d make in an hour, and turned to put them back. Next to the ice machine, I searched my pockets. I had $23.85 in cash. I moved toward her and offered what I had. Surprised, blinking back tears, she replied, “Oh, I can’t take that.”
I nodded, stepped around her, placed the money on the counter next to the lottery tickets, and said, “Twenty-three, eighty-five for pump 7, please.” The cashier grunted and said, “I’ll ring it up in a minute,” as he motioned for the next customer to step up.
The woman sputtered a thank-you to me as the entangled lights unraveled around my heart. “Merry Christmas, miss,” I said.
The bell jingled as I stepped out the door and headed toward my car. The kids in the backseat were still watching for the woman to come out. At home, I surveyed the scene of good tidings. The Nativity was nestled among the presents. I then realized that $23.85 was probably the best gift my heart could ever receive that Christmas.