Let’s agree to agree on the reason for the season. It’s right there, built into the name of the holiday. No argument here.
But custom also encourages a secular tradition with the religious celebration, in the form of the giving and receiving of gifts. I’ve written before about my struggles on the giving end, highlighted by the time I presented my youngest brother with a gyroscope.
“What’s this?” he asked, a dubious look on his face. I’d hoped for something closer to fascination at the tiny, wondrous miracles of the physical universe. It was neither the first nor the last time I miscalculated how someone would respond to my efforts.
To counterbalance that failing, I’ve always been very good on the receiving end. Excellent, even. My parents shaped this quality during my younger years with a variety of entertaining and educational surprises under the tree. Ours was not a home of abundance. But they never scrimped when it came to Santa duties.
From cowboy hats and six-shooters to chemistry sets, bicycles and footballs to microscopes, they had a way of balancing recreation with education. At times, they showed extraordinary foresight as to my future calling: How many children get a dictionary with their name embossed at age 7?
In my adulthood, they tended to concentrate on books and sweaters, confident both would be well used. I suspect Daddy subcontracted the selections to Mama, in deference to her decided literary and vestiary bent.
Both parents are gone now, and the years and personal preference have whittled both my giving-to and receiving-from Christmas list to a single person: my wife, Kayne.
For a while now it has been our custom to provide each other with a list of possible gift ideas. The downside is that it removes some of the surprise element from the unwrapping process.
Offsetting that is the advantage of utility: I doubt Kayne would have thought to give me a tire inflator if I hadn’t researched Wirecutter recommendations and pointed her in the direction of the highest rated.
But it’s also a function of the passage of decades that, one way or another, I’ve pretty much acquired everything I need and a good deal of what I want.
Clothing, for example. The cold weather gear I accumulated during 20 years in the Frigid North is more than enough to meet Nashville’s relatively minor requirements. Including a stack of Mama sweaters.
And retirement has seriously reduced the level of dressy – or even casual – wear that I can put to use. I could probably get by with three warm-weather and three cold-weather outfits, and just rotate them in season. I doubt the folks at church, my only regular public outing, are keeping wardrobe tabs.
Books are still good. But I haven’t yet completely cashed in on the very generous gift card Kayne gave me for that last year, determined to make each purchase worthy of inclusion in our already considerable stash.
A pool table. I could do with a pool table, having left behind my previous version in the house we sold in New York. But our Nashville home lacks the basement that held it and offers no convenient space for a replacement.
Kayne, meanwhile, has confessed a similar difficulty in coming up with things to ask for this year. So we’ve largely settled on winging it and hoping for the best.
I appreciate those who prefer to de-emphasize the commercial aspects of Christmas, including some who reject the idea of gifts altogether. They aim for an observance on a higher plane.
I applaud the sentiment but I am not that evolved. It’s not that I want to acquire more stuff, it’s just that I still want stuff, if you get the distinction.
Especially if the new stuff (pool table) doesn’t take up space that we don’t really have.
Fortunately, there are gifts that meet that standard. Gifts that last a while, but then are gone because they’ve been eaten or drunk. I suspect that much of our haul this year will end up inside us. (I lean salty; Kayne leans sweet. Appropriately.)
There’s also another thing I’ve always wanted, but never gotten. Something that doesn’t take up much space at all and is a wondrous device. A gyroscope.
Joe Rogers is a former writer for The Tennessean and editor for The New York Times. He is retired and living in Nashville. He can be reached at jrogink@gmail.com