Accept Gifts That Keep Giving

If I put my mind to it, I could probably list almost every gift I have received as an adult and many from my childhood. The first one I remember wasn’t a planned gift but I’m counting it because it’s my first memory in life. When I finally recalled it decades later and described the dress I was wearing, who I was with, and how it came to be, my parents knew the day – and that I was three years old. 

My grandmother and her mother were walking me to the store, one on either side of me holding my hands, and occasionally swinging me, which was a thrill for me. Unfortunately, they weren’t swinging me as we crossed the railroad track and my black patent leather shoe got stuck between a rail and the ground beside it and weren’t able to retrieve it without destroying it. They took me on a bus to replace my shoes and I wouldn’t realize until many years later that the bus fare alone was probably a huge hardship for them. This realization was what made me recall the story and tell it to my parents. At the time, I just felt special that I got to ride on the bus in my yellow dress with Grandma and Granny and get new shoes. 

The second gift I remember vividly was a giant paper doll from Grandma. When I say giant, I mean giant. Grandma always bought the same gifts for my cousin Dina and me, so I hope paper dolls were also her favorite toys and she was truly as thrilled as I was. We were sitting on the floor at Dina’s house when we opened these giant paper dolls and they were taller than we were sitting down.

Later, because Grammy competed with Grandma in pretty much every way that I can think of except for saying the worse cuss words, Grammy gave me Jenny, the almost life-sized real doll. I can’t say that I loved Jenny more than I did the paper doll, but I was equally thrilled to get her and the two dresses that my grandmother made for her because she was sure we wouldn’t find clothes for her in stores. (pssst, Grammy, 4T might have worked but I loved those dresses.)

I sincerely appreciated every gift I received and still have many of them. As I see them in my home or pull them out of the cabinets to use (lots of kitchen gifts . . .  one heavy lead crystal glass remains of the four Aunt Jackie gave me in forty year ago for Christmas, I never bake a whole turkey and seldom drink or serve wine but the turkey platter that Sherri and Wayne and wine glasses that Tammy and Chuck gave me for Christmas and a wedding gift nearly that long ago are still in the top shelves of my cabinets. Strange as it may seem, I think of the gifts and people who gave them to me sometimes when I’m not using or looking at them. I remember my first roll-on deodorant and lip gloss – an Avon gift from an aunt to acknowledge that she realized I was growing up. In a small way, that acknowledgement changed my life.

When Uncle Mickey married Pam, I thought I hit the gift jackpot and that’s big for someone who had sincerely loved every gift. Maybe because they were close in age (6 years older than me) it was easier for her/them (I assumed her at the time) to know my exact taste so well. Their gifts weren’t extravagant, just so me. I preferred to think age had nothing to do with it and Pam, who became a close friend, person to run to when Mom was on my nerves, and softener to the love-hate relationship that Uncle Mickey and I had had since he had five sisters, no brothers and I was his third niece and he didn’t want ‘just another girl’. One of Pam’s biggest gifts was teaching me anatomy and guided me into the medical field, a place I never expected to go but It was a perfect fit when I got there. 

A few years after they divorced, Uncle Mickey gave me a sweater for Christmas. Just as I had appreciated the jellybean crock the year before (which I still have and use as a planter now because I would never own enough jellybeans to fill it), I appreciated this sweater but seriously wondered what he was thinking. It wasn’t like anything I wore – not my style or colors. There wasn’t a single reason I could think of for that sweater to have said, “Sandy,” to him. 

I discussed this sweater with Mom later and admitted that I was struggling with hurt feelings because it seemed to say he either didn’t pay attention me anymore, or he just picked up ‘something’ for me without giving it any thought. She said he probably liked the sweater and figured since he liked me, too, we belonged together. I told her I would have worn it even without that story but thanks for trying to make me feel better. I did hope it was something that simple and it was ridiculous for me to feel hurt. 

The first time I wore that sweater out, I got more compliments than usual. People told me I looked beautiful, happy, healthy, and asked if I had changed my makeup or done something different with my hair. Every time I wore that sweater, people reacted similarly.  A few might have said they liked the sweater, but the comments were overwhelmingly about me with no mention of the it.

Years later, when ‘having colors done’ became a thing and I came home with my swatch packet, my best colors were in that sweater. And I was still wearing that sweater (as I did until it fell apart). I was also liking Uncle Mickey enough to thank him for seeing me better than I saw myself – but harbored enough of the smart ass/hate side of our relationship to tell him he missed his calling. He should have been a fashion consultant instead of a Naval Engineer. 

The cryptic sweater ended up being an amazing gift that kept on giving, long after it was gone. I’m loving that sweater right now, decades later and wishing Uncle Mickey was still alive so I could call and tell him. Again. 

I am not a fan of registries and gift lists and highly recommend allowing people to give what they care to look for or are moved to gift based on what you mean to them. Sometimes, it is more of a gift than you can imagine.

Bet You Can't Beat This

Published to Gather, December 15, 2006 09:29 AM EST (Updated: December 15, 2006 09:58 AM EST)

Our quarrel began the night before I was born and ended the morning she died unless, as I suspect, her spirit lingers to resent the funeral. A rational person would assume that if she knows about the arrangements, she should also know that I voiced her final wishes, defended her outlandish choice, and disputed their veto, but lucidity seldom entered our relationship. If experience and idioms are to be trusted, she is most likely flailing in her grave, blaming me.

Just in case, I will spend today resenting her back. (Lest you think I am disrespectful, I assure you she would appreciate this.) Today is not my birthday. However, it is the day she would deliver a birthday card laced with the only lottery ticket I would touch this year since I am not a gambler.

They all wanted me to enter this life on my grandmother's birthday. I teased them by sending my mother into labor and drawing everyone to the hospital on the correct day. But I waited until after midnight to make my appearance, setting the stage for a lifetime of drama. Mom and Grammy forgave me, I assume immediately since I recall no early problems with them. Struggles with Aunt Jackie, on the other hand, haunt some of my youngest memories and stuck around the balance of the years we shared.

My penchant for never sleeping started with the long nights of vice-grip determination to keep her from taking my pillow. Sharing my room and my bed were enough - the pillow was not included in the deal. I tired of calling heads or tails, picking a hand, guessing a number, drawing a card, or rolling a die, and learned to feign sleep. Eyes tight, knuckles white, I listened for her to come in and then forced the weight of my entire body into my head. By morning, she ended up with two pillows, and I was left with my head resting flat on the mattress.

Insomnia, lottery tickets, and birthday celebrations on the wrong date were not the only or the most significant gifts I received from this aunt, though. True to her eccentric nature, she delivered excessive gifts, twisted in resentment, and adorned in life lessons. It took half a lifetime to understand that she was not purposely torturing me with the marathon dinners in lavish restaurants when I would rather have been at home, eating pizza with my friends, and that giving me extravagant clothes and jewelry that I thought were gorgeous but not me allowed her to play the mother sometimes.

For years, I believed the lifetime of resentment she harbored toward me stemmed from my having placed an inexcusable burden on her calendar. Either waiting for my slow birth had kept her from the most exciting date ever, or the thought of family celebrations on two consecutive days was more than she could handle. My calendar theory faded after years of watching her enjoy poker games, horse races, and bingos, and I decided she must have wagered a small fortune on my delivery date. 

(Aunt Jackie playing bookie at a Derby Party)

Whatever the reason, I had no power to amend my transgression so I the playing field by endorsing her unique characteristics. Eventually, I earned her respect by beating her at her own games. For example, when she decided it was okay to lift a Christmas tree ornament as long as three like it remained, I bought the biggest tree I could find, decorated it in threes, and bet her a dollar she would not find a liftable ornament. She could not resist, or hide how proud she was of me for beating her.

When she announced her final request, I supported her. A game of showdown poker-winner takes all--on her casket seemed much more appropriate than a traditional will for this aunt. Unfortunately, husbands, sisters, attorneys, and funeral directors aren't always as open-minded as I am.

So, in case she is around, resenting me for not insisting on that poker hand, I will assume she is also wishing me a Happy Birthday and resent her having the wrong day. I might play a game of showdown poker and honestly lose everything she owned. For sure, even if she isn't lingering, I will miss her and appreciate the many gifts she has given me.

Where Do I Fit In?

Where Do I Fit In?

In addition to the traditional offerings most generous, doting parents lavish on a child, mine infused a lifeline to their unrestricted generosity. They gave me the world, by allowing me to see the people in it without filters. They augmented their love for me by inviting the world in to love me with them, and they backed me to the wall where I had a wide-scope, eye-level view of people, without ever having to look up or down at anyone.

Through that wide scope, I learned invaluable lessons about perception. No matter how much one person belittles other, misquotes or misrepresents them, ignores facts or logic, or deprives others of what he has, none of that increases the wealth or intelligence of the first person. Even when that person puffs his chest and sneers down his nose at a dropped head, the person wearing that dropped head maintains his original wealth and intelligence. Perception is the only thing a bully affects, and it only favors him in his own mind.

No one becomes honest or patriotic by calling another a liar or a traitor. People are what they are, and no amount of name-calling or swearing otherwise will change that. One man can’t drink another thirsty. Contrast does not produce, assumption will not build, fear will not protect, and denial cannot erase. Perception does not replace experience or knowledge.

That scope also showed me we have no absolute control over what we receive, but always have control over what we give. When we tap out on receiving, we will always have more to give. I also noticed that what we give comes back, although seldom from the people we have given to, often in a different form, and usually more valuable than we’d imagined. Those who count favors and pennies often cheat themselves.

I treasure all of these lessons, but appreciate seeing myself as part of the bigger picture more than any other. I was unlike any other person in that wide scope. There might have been a dozen other white-skinned, blue-eyed, tall females present, but they wouldn’t all be able to type eighty-five words a minute or ace their exams without studying. I knew my father would be home for dinner every night, help me with my homework, and drive me to my music lessons. My mother would have breakfast on the table and my school uniform ironed when I came down the stairs in the morning. But that didn’t mean any other parent would, or every other parent could do the same.

Where did I fit in, since I had done nothing to deserve my special status? For me, the answer was simple. I fit in the bigger picture by wanting to be there, and by sharing my parents with the world.

Here they are world – I will continue to do my best to share what they have given me.

Happy Father's Day For Me

I breezed past the card aisles and stores this year without feeling the pull. My father, grandfathers, and the uncles and friends who were like fathers to me are all gone. My daughters are adults and on their own, at least as far as greeting cards are concerned. Finally, I don't need to find the perfect verse on a card that my father will never see, the way I did for years after his death.

This year, free of traditions and obligations, my Father's Day gift is to me. I will wrap myself in appreciation, tie on streamers of love, and slip into memories of the men who have given me the gift of life - my father and the fathers of my children and grandchildren. I am forever grateful to these men for the greatest moments in my life, and for contributing to who I am and how I remember life.

I will condense the tomes my father deserves into a few sentences. In the thirty-five years I shared with this man, I never saw him lose his temper, turn his back on a person in need, deliver less than anyone deserved, take advantage of a person or circumstance, embarrass, shame or disappoint anyone, or expect anything. Those who knew him, and many who didn't, admired and respected him. He left this world a better place than he found it, and I feel his presence in the goodness I see around me.

My first husband was like my father, and our daughter fortunate to have lived with their combined influence the first fourteen years of her life. Although this man had never held an infant before her, he jumped into his role with confidence and skill. He spoke her name the first time she heard it, gave her the funny middle name, fed her the first bottle, changed the first diaper, gave her the first bath, dressed her in the first non-hospital-issued outfit, and placed her in her own bed for the first time. He did the middle of the night feedings, cared for her while I worked, laughed with her, taught her, and adored her. He did what every father should do.

Since I am gifting myself, I will remember how far beyond he went for her, by what he did for me. He let me go without destroying her family. Divorce meant he didn't sleep at our house. He, or his next girlfriend, was still there to get my daughter off the school bus and stay with her until I came in from work. He still came by to visit, take us to dinner, and help with homework. He made sure we had what we needed, physically and emotionally. He attended family functions and spent holidays with us. He invited me to his soccer games and parties, and included me when his family came to visit.

When he moved across country, he returned for holidays, called every night to see how his daughter's day had gone and ask if she needed anything. He was a phone call or plane ride away in every decision we needed to make concerning our daughter. Our photo albums contain pictures of our daughter with her parents and their new spouses, all celebrating her life together.

The greatest gift to both of us was the love and respect he continued to show for me. I believe children learn to respect their parents by watching how they treat one another. My daughter didn't have to choose between parents, divide loyalties, or doubt that her parents loved each other. Respect came easy for her.

The second husband accepted the first, loved his daughter, and welcomed him into the lives of the daughter he already had and the one we had later. He also did the normal things - diapers, baths, cared for our daughters while I worked, was room-father at school, and shared his knowledge and talent – but his term ended too soon. He died shortly after our daughter's sixth birthday. The first husband stepped in to fill as much of that void as he could.

The first daughter has married a man who treats their children the way my father and her father treated us. I can't think of a luckier woman than I have been. It is a Happy Father's Day for me.

2018 update: The second daughter, too, is with a man who treats their children like my father treated me. And there's nothing in the world I could more for my daughter and her daughters. I continue to love Father's Day because it reminds me how fortunate I am.
 

A Walk With My Real Mother

I went for a walk with my mother yesterday. I walked out the back door with the confused imposter who had been living in her body the last few years and ended up with my real mother by the time we circled the building and stopped to rest by the front door.

Her wheelchair supported both of us until I finally let go to sit on the bench. She rode in the seat and I hung onto the handles, gripping a bit tighter than necessary. If the migraine vision stole my balance or my hip dislocated, I could imagine what she might do to herself trying to rescue me, since that's what real mothers do.

We had forty-five minutes to kill before the ambulance would return her to the nursing home. She called it the hospital but I think she knew the difference this time. She needed to pretend, the way I had the week before when I wheeled her to the dining room down the hall and called it taking her out to dinner.

She tucked the surgeon's report between her leg and the side of the chair and used both hands to drink her diet Sierra Mist, screwing the cap back on after each sip. I wondered which excited her more, having a drink in a bottle instead of a Styrofoam cup with a straw, or realizing she had the dexterity to manipulate the cap without help. Her hands looked confident. Maybe she remembered how I had complimented her penmanship when she signed the forms in the office.

She noticed how green the grass was despite the heat, and decided the thumping noise in the distance must be a large construction tool. It must have felt good for her to be outdoors. In the last year, she had been out only to pass from a car or ambulance to whichever railed, motorized bed she would occupy next. She smiled at a little girl passing with her mother, removed the cap to take another drink, and laughed when she realized it was ninety degrees and she was wearing a sweater. People would think she was crazy but she really wasn't even warm.

She remembered I had no air-conditioning in my car and apologized for making me come out. I reminded her I like heat, and said I was glad to be there. She mentioned knowing someone else was supposed to have been in my place and the nurse had to call me, but believed me when I said I wanted to be there.

We talked about the good news from the doctor; the hip had healed and he released her to put all ninety-six of her pounds on it again. In her mind, that meant she could go home soon, and she proved once again that she was in her right mind by telling me in detail all the things she needed to do when she went home.

I reminded her how much she appreciated the nurses and therapists at the hospital, and how she had saved every menu to show me the wonderful meals they served. She said those things were nice but she was still anxious to go home before she got too spoiled to all that pampering.

I wanted the confused imposter to replace my real mother so I could avoid the rest of the conversation. Her eyes met mine and asked for the truth, as no one but a real mother can.

Today, I hope she doesn't remember that I told her the truth.

Guitar Christmas

I had unusual children. They wanted to stay at home and hand out candy on Halloween, and provided lists of their favorite charities when asked what they wanted for their birthdays. They seldom asked for anything and never made Christmas lists. They made gift buying almost impossible.

So, when my youngest sat on Santa's lap long enough to repeat her life story and share her endless list of perceived injustices in the world, an internal alarm went off. When he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, my heart sank.

I had dealt with her questions and wishes for two months and still had a hard time controlling my sorrow; she had blindsided this poor man and his emotions. Santa looked around his elves and caught my eye. I shrugged, shallow, but the best I had to offer at the time. He hugged her close, kissed the top of her head, and sent her back to me.

"Did you see him kiss me?" She sounded relieved, maybe excited. "I told him I want him to bring my dad back, and he kissed me."

"What else did you tell him?" I hoped for a list of toys and a new conversation. "You were up there a long time."

She turned her eyes away. "I just told him about my dad so he'll find the right one." Her light, confident tone assured me she still believed a man in red could deliver anything she wanted. This would surely be the last year. I wished she could have wanted something possible.

As we walked through the mall, I asked more specific questions. What had she told Santa about her dad? Did she ask for anything else?

"I told him my dad had a beard and played guitar, and he liked Chucky Cheese. And he's dead."

"Santa can't bring your dad back," I said. "Nobody can. But maybe he could bring you a guitar." I waited out her labored sigh and defiant repositioning. "Did you ask for a guitar?"

"No way. He'd bring a toy one, like he did with the piano."

"Maybe not. You're older now."

"Santa only brings toy stuff. I want a real guitar."

I suggested we shop awhile before leaving and switched directions when her eyes lit up. "Choose a store. Anything except pets."

"Toys," she said, but changed her mind as we neared the organ music. "Can we go in the music store and look at microphones?"

"Look," I said, grateful for the microphone clue. "No touching and don't ask for anything because I don't have money for a microphone tonight."

Three frazzled clerks juggled impatient customers in the crowded store. My instinct said escape as I squeezed between the pre-teen male torturing a display drum set and a couple, obviously his parents, arguing over the length of time the noisemakers would hold his interest. By the time I cleared myself from the area and my head of the banging, my daughter had made her way to the other side of the store.

When I caught up with her, she had bypassed microphones and found a three-quarter acoustic hanging on the wall above the electric guitars. She stared, eyes glazed and lip pulled between her teeth, ignoring my presence, if it even registered with her. I stepped back to allow a frazzled employee through.

He started past her, stopped, and caught her eye. "Want me to get that for you?"

She shot me a glare. "I can't touch anything."

Without waiting for my response, he climbed a stepladder and handed the guitar down to her. "Okay, Mom?" He asked.

Saying no would have been like letting the air out of her arm floaties or denying the child another breath. She held the instrument and stared as though it might disappear if she looked away.

"Try it out," the defrazzling clerk urged.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and strummed, gently at first. As she grew comfortable and retreated into her own world, she warmed up her voice and let go. "Daddy's Hands," she sang, and played louder, her voice on key even if her chords weren't. Her song lured a gathering of customers to our corner of the store.

Still oblivious to everything around her, she stopped playing, traced the row of butterflies circling the sound hole, and said the magic words. "It was meant to be. I love butterflies."

"She wants it, Mom," the unfrazzled clerk said.

She climbed to her feet and handed the guitar back to him. "My mom doesn't have enough money."

I believe I heard gasps from the crowd and for a minute thought some of them were reaching for their wallets. "You can go back and tell Santa," I said. The clerk supported that idea, but she sighed and explained the problem with Santa and toy instruments.

"Maybe you can hold it?" I asked. "And we can tell Santa to come here and see what she wants?"

The too-freaking-excited-to-contain-himself clerk led the crowd in a series of cheers. "I'll take it down there myself and show it to him, after the store closes," he said. "And make sure he sees this exact guitar."

I pulled out my checkbook. "If you're sure, I guess we need to buy a strap and some guitar picks, so she'll be prepared."

"Positive. Santa's my buddy," the clerk said, walking behind the counter. He processed the transaction--with a twinkle in his eye--and handed the receipt to me.

My daughter received the butterfly guitar on Christmas that year. I got the real Santa.

Resourceful Disassembly

We met at the house to disassemble their lives. In one evening, we took apart what they had created, collected, and been in their years together. We held the pieces of their lives - our history - in our hands and decided what we would keep, and what we would leave behind forever.


Some things we all remembered the same, waved off or declared a keeper without discussion, and moved away from without a second thought. Others held different meaning for each of us, depending on our ages, interests, and perceptions. We all wanted a few things, and there were some none of us wanted but begged the others to take so they wouldn't disappear.

The white step might represent every category. Built from wood scraps in Daddy's workshop, sanded to perfection, and finished with the white, high gloss paint he often used, it might have brought in a quarter at a yard sale. None of us needed or wanted it, nor could we let it go. My brother and I remembered it first as a nuisance we had tripped around in the bathroom for a few years. Our much younger and shorter sister defended her step to independence; with it, she was able to wash her hands and brush her teeth without assistance.

My daughter won possession of the step with her memories of dragging it around while she helped her grandfather build the house. Whatever the project, she appeared, white step and plastic tools in hand, to stand or sit beside him until they had completed their work. He coached, complimented, explained, and wasted hours of his time putting his tools down to lift her and the white step and move them to a new position, where he needed her expert workmanship more. It seldom took long for her to inch her way back under his feet, and for him to smile, put his tools down again, and move her to another new spot.

To anyone else, it might have appeared we were cleaning up after what must have been the two worst packrats ever born. After sorting through the coffee cans and wooden crates of doohickeys and thingamabobs in his workshop, the recycles and sale items in her sewing table and junk drawers, their libraries and boxes of documents and greeting cards, I saw the wonder of two resourceful, loving people. The coffee can and junk drawer enabled special moments, like when I came in to see the finished pantry in my remodeled kitchen and recognized the knobs from my old bedroom closet, and when I bought the coat with the ugly buttons, and Mom found perfect replacements in her sewing table.

Between them, they could repair or create, define or explain anything. They left instructions for life, photographs and movies, music, recipes, tangible evidence of their births, marriage, accomplishments, and their appreciation of our expressions of love over the years. For anything we had not absorbed enough of, there was something in that house we could take with us to continue the session.

I came home with the baskets Mom wove and a ceramic clock she painted, a pair of wooden birds Daddy made, a toothpick holder, a bobby pin dish, a planer and a rosary I made for my grandmother when I was in fourth grade. The clock, birds, and baskets are the only items I will ever use and I doubt a stranger would have chosen any of these items from the house full of selections. They mean the world to me because, collectively, they symbolize my parents.