It's in the Giving, Really

There is something magical about wrapping gifts. It instantly zip-lines me back to my childhood, my teenager-hood, when I was either tampering with freshly-wrapped gifts, surprises, under the tree…or given the task of creasing and measuring and twisting and bowing and taping together a beautiful package for someone. Let me explain.

I have a clear, clear memory of Christmas shopping with my father as he searched for the perfect gift for my mother. He often waited until the last minute, or at best, the last couple of weeks before Christmas. Was it procrastination or a lack of money? I’ll never know, but I was always in on it. I remember traipsing through the then Shillito’s department store with him. He was always looking for that perfect something. My dad was a "gifter". One year he bought my mother a lovely black onyx cocktail ring. I might’ve tried it on my small finger. This was at a local jeweler, though, Marshall’s Jewelers, in Bardstown, KY. Daddy may have worked out a deal to pay for it with the owner, or maybe he forked over the cash. All I know is I was tasked (at the ridiculous age of 8!) to hide it from my mom until Christmas morning. It was a small velvet box and oh, the mystery! I was in! Daddy literally gave me the RESPONSIBILITY to take care of that ring. I did what any eight-year-old girl would do: I hid it in my Barbie house! And then promptly forgot about it. My mom was too busy with Christmas baking and cooking and handling her large brood to even care to go snooping. But just in case, I had it. I could be trusted. Daddy nodded at me, in collusion, always.

A few days before, he asked me for the little box. Hmmm. I looked up at him, bewildered. I’d forgotten where it was. I’D FORGOTTEN! I’m not sure what happened next, but we scrambled together, searching. The ring turned up, in time, for the big day. I remember her slipping it on her finger, sitting in her housecoat, lovely at 6 a.m., amidst droves of wrapping paper and ribbon and squealing and chaos. A Kirtley Christmas morning. I imagine, looking back, that she stretched her hand out and adored that ring. And then kissed my dad’s scruffy cheek, in full-blown love.

I was learning, as a child, what pleasure there was in giving. In really searching for that precious something to bestow on the people who matter to you. Even now, I love, I mean really LOVE, giving gifts. And I love to make them absolutely beautiful. The wrapping paper and ribbon and tags and scotch tape makes me woozy with joy. I was always a good wrapper, so much so that I was given the job each year…hauling loot out from under the bed, a closet, and left with rolls and rolls and bags of bows and scissors and tape to make it all magically beautiful. And I’d scamper like a little squirrel, with stacks of gifts and place them under the tree, elf-like. I still take pride in the precise creases, snagging tags with my teeth, the snip of the blades, the skill of writing, in cursive, TO: and FROM: with love. I don’t care that they’ll just get ripped open. I don’t care. Who doesn’t love a gift?

Really, who doesn’t?

This holiday will be like no other. Gifts, if given, will be shipped off to loved ones, or delivered in some socially-distanced way, perhaps. And I realize that this sentiment does not fall the same for everyone - most difficult will be those who we cannot share space - our families and friends. In exercising caution for each other, not to spread this vicious virus, we are forfeiting the comfort we so desperately need now. Even Santa is separated from children by a sheet of plexiglass. No hugs or whispers or wishes. But we can hold tight to our precious memories, and we should. And I do believe (oh boy, do I believe) that we should take time to reminisce and write them down, lest they disappear.

As humans, who have endured so much for hundreds of years, we can make the best of a bad situation. We will get through this holiday and never forget it. The stories will be shared from a distant place in memory one day, with children, grandchildren and on. I do believe we'll be able to look back.

But we will not forget how to give.