The Ghost of Christmas Presents

"Alright, Alright I give in! Where did you put that $3000 gold watch I wanted you to buy for me?"

Thank You Very Much,
Thank You Very Much,
It's the Strangest Thing that Anyone Ever Gave to Me…

The thing sat on the dining room table where they claimed it belonged. It came in the mail, courtesy of distant relatives. Its base consisted of a wicker plate guaranteed to let bean juice squall onto the table. Around the rim of the tacky brown structure clustered plastic vegetables -- all the kinds I never ate. Atop these indigestible objects, perched an obviously fake onion, big and bulbous as a Christmas tree ornament. On this ball, however, little roots stuck out like odd hairs on a bad toupee.

Thanking the sender required fiction talents of the highest order. First, what on earth was it? Can anyone express gratitude when the gift constitutes an eye-sore of the first order? How should I describe it -- as a centerpiece, a decoration, a whatchamacallit? The thing died peacefully in a back closet. It required no special rites to put it out of our misery. Cousin It himself would have been more welcome at our house than an object so freakish that even Webster couldn't figure out what to name it.

This "gift" accomplished one thing, however: I feared hearing from its senders again. What if they started a gift series -- one of those Cheese of the Month Clubs or something? Did we face the prospect of The Gift That Keeps On Giving, just when we wished it stayed at home? What kind of people were our relatives, anyway? Odd fellows we surely didn't want to know! Nevertheless, I crafted this ingenious reply: "Thanks!" I left the rest to their imagination, which might or might not be considerable, given the unusual nature of their choice.

This experience proves the rituals of the winter holidays can test us to our limits. We know not what we send any better than we know the receivers of our generosity. Thus we make mistakes. Repeatedly.

Previous errors often miss the trash can and hit the recycle bin instead. For all we know, our bizarre gift might be the product of our benefactors' horror, too. Did they embrace the caricature of holiday gift giving in which every gift is a pass-along? Or were they going through an experimental phase that demanded presents more outré than plants-for-pets that sprout little leaves out of their nostrils and ears?

The prank gift functions best for the near-and-dear. Gift certificates cover people who may remain strangers all our lives. Intimate items may include household goods, unless our taste comes straight from Abercrombie & Fitch. A prepaid calling card can allow all of us to become better acquainted if that remains our wish -- and theirs.

When the tinsel on the trees droops into the cookie-strewn carpet, then the real test arrives: Do we possess the good grace and gumption to share gratitude for being remembered at all?

When I hit twelve and a royal half, I failed this exam. A tea party set arrived. It sat under the tree, obviously meant for me. Embarrassed, I could not bring myself to say the one word that proved my adulthood.

The sender didn't know me from Madonna. Even if he lived next door, he would not have sent a cat's eye locket, my fervent wish. But he made no claims to being Santa, and I thought of myself as a teenager. At such junctures, we can remember that all of us can be writers. The hardest word to say may be the very one that gives us completely away.

Meg Curtis

Meg Curtis leads a triple life as a creative writer, a college professor and a medievalist. From western New York, she gained insights into wildlife and spiritualism. In Appalachia, she learned to love America's oldest mountains. She has settled happily, with three southern cats and a basset hound named Mr. Willoughby, in Freemansburg, Pennsylvania.