This morning, while happily being lazy, cuddled up with my children in a big fluffy bed, we did a little game of “What was your favorite gift, ever?” With the holidays coming, the expectation of gifts about to be given, it seemed like a timely question. I realized I was trying to gauge importance based on my own way of evaluating gifts, and not on cash value.
With plenty of giggles, we reminded each other of gifts we recieved as recently as last year. The Squinkies in the Christmas socks was the most popular, and also the most played with of the gifts. The books were pretty high on the list, too. I also found out about some weird gifts my children have given to others that I knew nothing about. The Jesus-head snow globe (with real fabric body base) almost made me fall off the bed. These are definitely memory makers.
So I started thinking about gifts I have received, and why I remember them, and why, when I touch them or see them, they still have a memory and emotion attached.
I was given a small vile of perfume oil in a small metal box. The perfume oil was mixed especially for me, in a very small perfume shop, to match my body chemistry. The created perfume was given the name “rainy day” by the shop owner mixing it from listening to the man who purchased it for me. It warmed on my skin like the way sun warms your face in the summer, but then cooled to feel like a breeze after a rain. I learned later, from the shop owner, the meaning of the name was her impression of the man’s words describing what he wanted for me, and that he described me as refreshing, but in a way that snuck up on you, and melancholy and lingering. It was only half an ounce of concentrated oil, given a long ago, and I still have half of it left. I wear it only when I feel blessed and happy. The rest of the time it lives on shelf in a bowl with sea glass and pretty beads, and a bell I found at a lake. Every time I see it, I smile.
The winter I was pregnant with my first son, I was looking for things to make me feel safe and happy. I was loving that I could feel the baby kick, and had all the plans for what this unexpected child would be, but his father and I had been struggling. I wanted to feel like I could nest peacefully, be someplace restful, and just lull myself into a warm space of wife and mother. His father and I had taken a walk in early December through a small town, and come to a local furniture store and chatted amicable with the shop owner. We had been the only ones on the shop, and the owner, happy for the company, had shown us everything. Amish designed dressers. Shaker chests. An amazing sleigh bed in mahogany. We opened every drawer, pulled open ever cabinet, sat on every bench, laughed. It was delicious. The day before Christmas Eve, I walked into the room we were converting to the nursery and there was a beautiful Stickley-inspired mission-style oak rocking chair. It was the one I had fallen in love with on our walk. The note said “For you and the baby”. The chair is in my living room now. I read or write in it almost every day.
I am a writer, so once in a while beside this blog, I write things for other publication. I enter a contest almost every year that asks you to write an entire story using 101 words or less. It is complicated in its simplicity, and something that, when I have been published, I am damn proud of. You are allowed to enter up to three stories for consideration. One year, I had all three published. Since I don’t actually *expect* anyone to read what I write (a total self-esteem issue, all writers (except maybe Steven King) think this way) knowing that if anyone does is kind of a gift itself. I got asked to lunch (maybe it was drinks) a little time after the publication date. During the meal (or drinks) I was handed a laminated sheet of the cover of the magazine that published my stories. Under the lamination, on top of the cover, were the three stories themselves, cut-out and artfully placed so that it made it look like the stories were the only thing in the magazine, and you did not need to read any further. This had been hand done. Custom. There is only one in the world. I put a frame around it, and it hangs on my wall next to kindergarten art and an old baseball pennant. I think of the man’s hands, imagining scissors and glue, and a laminating machine, knowing he thought about me for that small space of time, every time the shiny lamination catches my attention. It is divine.
I was gifted a leather journal. The edges are faded and soft. I use it while sitting in my rocker.
I have a pair of sapphire earrings that I never wear, made from the stones that used to be in my engagement ring. I really should sell them.
I sometimes wear a little black dress that was purchased for me at a flea market. It comes just above the knee, has a kicky little A-line, sleeveless with the perfect darts to enhance my bust line, and laces up the back. In all my different sizes (and that is a lot), this dress has always fit. I have danced for hours and hours in this dress. I have traveled in this dress. I have both undone the laces for someone and had them undone for me. I always feel sexy in this dress. The man who bought this for me sends me a Christmas card every year, usually with photos of his kids, and I send him a birthday card, usually with a drawing of a dress on it. The dress hangs in the back of my closet, so I see it when I am searching for something to wear when I haven’t done laundry. Without fail, I feel tingly when I touch it. It has been 28 years. It never gets old.
I have a jar that sits on my desk at home. I forget about it most of the time, under piles of papers and unfolded laundry. It is just an old pickle jar. It still smells slightly of dill, especially if it is summer and the morning light warms it up. The lid has a slit cut in the top, like a piggy bank, and it is decorated with china markers and layers of Holly Hobbie angel stickers. My children don’t remember that they made it for me. They were only 3 and 5 at the time the gift was offered. It is the “whatever money” jar. As explained to me at the time, when two little kids had no idea about cost of things, but only that money was important and we had none, this jar was so once in a while we could have some whatever-money to spend. It has been raided plenty of times over the last 7 years, giving us ice cream on hot summer days, or popcorn at the free movies, or pennies for wishes, or replacement checker pieces, or quarters for the dryer on the days we washed all the stuffed animals. It has never been empty. I have yet to put any money in, yet there it is, on my desk, somehow filled with coins. I only seem to remember it when we need it the most.
I think there must be more things like this filling my house, the way most gifts are for me. Sweet little memory touchstones that hold my heart, allowing me love when I am struggling to find it. I guess today was a gift, too. Maybe my favorite, ever.
