This time of year, everything seems tinged with tinsel: trees, walkways, music, movies, even dinnertime conversations. The other Sunday after church, we were having lunch with our friends Charlie and Corrine Potts when the discussion wound around to Christmas shopping.
“What kinds of things do y’all usually give each other?” Corrine asked.
At our house, Mr. Fix-It usually buys something he wants, tells me “thank you” and he’s perfectly satisfied. It works for me. He gets what he wants, doesn’t mind paying the bill when it comes in, and I have more fun telling Santa what little stuff to put in his stocking so there’s some surprise on Christmas Day.
Corrine shared that Charlie is just about unpleasable. Charlie’s a pretty easygoing guy, so that little revelation was surprising. Corrine says he’s really picky and doesn’t mind letting you know that he’d rather have had another color, a different model, or something else altogether. I can tell you that would last in our house exactly one holiday; after that he’d be buying his own goodies. Corrine, on the other hand, was delighted she had been able to share with their extended family just what treats Charlie was hoping to open on Christmas morning.
“I’ve just about gotten your whole list taken care of,” she smiled, the relief more than evident on her face.
“Do you mean to tell me he gives you a list?” Darrell was astonished.
“Sure,” she replied. “That’s the only way anybody knows what to get him since he’s so picky.”
Charlie was incredulous. “Corrine, you don’t give that list to our families, do you?”
“Of course,” she shot back, her voice rising a bit. “How else do you expect somebody to buy you a present you’ll keep?” A couple of neighboring tables perked up.
Charlie could not believe what he was hearing from his wife. A few snickers were heard from surrounding tables. “But, Corrine,” he protested. “That’s embarrassing to have people think I’m that hard to please. Why don’t you just tell them to give a gift in my name to a charity?”
By this time, twenty-seven years of trying to coordinate the perfect Christmas gifts for her husband got the best of Corrine and she was off-to-the-races.
“WELL, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT, CHARLIE?” came the new volley. “They’re in Idaho and South Dakota trying to figure out what to send you. They only see you once a year. They don’t want to give something to a charity when they already do that. THEY JUST WANT TO BUY YOU A DAMN GIFT THAT YOU’LL KEEP.”
Charlie looked like he’d swallowed a bottle of that hot mustard Chinese restaurants hide in one of those yellow mustard squeezers with a lady in an apron on the side. Mr. Fix-It and I were doubled over while two-thirds of the restaurant went dead silent trying to figure out whether this was a new floor show. We quickly paid and exited to a few shaking heads with knowing grins. They’d heard this conversation before.
It reminded me of the year my father bought my mother a new top-of-the-line Oldsmobile for Christmas. Planning it for months, he had enlisted his old friend Bert Patrick to order the car and have it serviced. Guy Ouzts was all set to open the dealership Christmas morning so Mother could literally drive her Christmas present off the showroom floor.
When Bert brought Daddy the keys, he disguised the exchange in a handshake at the drug store just in case my eagle-eyed mother was in the vicinity. Daddy said he and Bert hadn’t been that formal in years.
Not one to like surprises, Mother was clueless until Christmas Eve at an open house over at the church parsonage when Mr. Guy and his lovely wife Miss Rosa were leaving the event as Mother and C.H. drove up in his red Mustang convertible.
“How do you like your Christmas present?” Miss Rosa called as Mother was getting out of the car. Mr. Guy couldn’t get her out of there fast enough to keep Mother from hearing the query a second time. They drove away before Mother could answer, but the jig was up.
C.H. was mortified but, for mother, the anticipation only grew through the night. Okay, so now she knew it was a car, but which kind and what model?
One can only imagine her excitement and though Daddy’s total surprise was compromised, he had great fun keeping my mother on tenterhooks for the next eighteen hours. My father was her hero.
The next Christmas she got a flannel nightgown. That had to be one of the coldest winters my father has ever known.
Our moral here is that if you have to wonder if it’s really the thought that counts, are you willing to take that chance?
Helen Person is a Winder resident and columnist for the Barrow Journal. You can reach her at helenperson@windstream.net.
