The first gifts have arrived from the east; socks, mittens and toques for everyone in the family, knitted by Grandma Susie. I wear her cherished socks each day (I get cold feet, writing) and a toque - to keep the heat, and my thoughts, from escaping through the top of my head. When my fingers start to freeze, Iām tempted to slip on a pair of mittens - but itās too hard to type that way. While I work, putting one word in front of another, I think of Grandmaās tireless hands, all the small stitches she put into a life, one at a time.
These gifts last forever - the priceless ones. The album my mother composed: photographs of my father, drenched in dead light. The year my daughter had five dollars to her name and went to the flea market to buy my gifts: a belt made for a Barbie dollās waist and a pullover made for a Buddha. The Christmas my husband went all out and bought me the MacBook Air I couldnāt afford (which, when the bill came in, I secretly paid for, knowing he could afford it even less.) For me it has always been easier to give, to lighten my own load rather than bear the weight of other peopleās caring.
Sometimes, though, giving can get to be too much. Having to buy a pop-up hot dog cooker for a sister-in-law you never see, because three wise men bearing gifts to a babe in a manger invented the custom of giving Christmas presents centuries ago, is a desperate thing. Consumption being sacred, we continue to search for āthe perfect giftā, the one that says āI love youā with a price tag that shows how much. We celebrate the birth of a very wise man who said we should give all we have to the poor, by showering each other with ultrasonic jewellery cleaners and motorized tie racks.
āForgive me, giver, if I destroy the gift. It is so nearly what I would have wished for, I could not help but perfect it,ā wrote the American poet, Laura Riding. A noble sentiment, in theory, but most days I donāt consider destroying my MacBook Air in order to perfect it; I am still, in part, a material girl. Besides, as my mother would say, to trash my laptop would be looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Last night I read āThe Gift of the Magiā, a tale about the rewards of unselfish love, to my granddaughter, hoping she would understand why Santa will be making a donation, in her name, to the orphans of Palestine this Christmas. In O. Henryās story, a woman sells her long beautiful locks to get enough money to buy a Christmas gift for her husband: a platinum fob chain for his prized gold watch. Her husband, meanwhile, is downtown hawking his watch to buy the set of tortoise shell combs his wife had worshipped in a shop window - for her hair.
āThese two unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house,ā O. Henry writes. āBut let it be said.... that of all who give and receive gifts, such as they, are wisest.ā
My father, a wise man in his way, refused to go into debt over Christmas. Coloured lights were a waste of electricity, wrapping paper a waste of trees. āChristmas is about family,ā he would say, much to my horror: I didnāt want togetherness, I wanted gifts. Things you could touch.
The one gift I have left that my father gave me - the one, that is, I can still touch - is the charm bracelet he bought on a trip to South Africa. I often hold it in my hands - the bracelet I never wore - and think of him standing in some shop, in a foreign land, trying to decide which souvenir would appeal to me most, the daughter he tried to know.
Grandma Susie died last summer. She was still young, her hands not ready to let slip the beautiful and comforting things they made. āThat means we wonāt be getting any more socks this year for Christmas!ā my granddaughter cried, when I had to break the news.
But Grandma had finished this yearās Christmas knitting in the long dark evenings before spring, as if she understood the importance of continuing to give, long after it is expected of her. Weāll open Grandma Susieās gifts first, as we have done every Christmas, but hers will be the hardest, this year, to bear.