All of
the Five Women Mayhem bloggers have been contemplating an interesting question
during this holiday season: What is one of the best gifts you have ever
given?
Thus, with inspiration from those three groovy wise men and their most perfect gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh – we each offer a short tale of our own special giving, in all seasons, for intrinsically the same reason - Love.
THE BEST GIFT by Marilyn Moore
My dad was a farmer.
His work clothes were a long-sleeved blue shirt, overalls with about a
gazillion pockets, and heavy boots. In
the winter, add insulated coveralls and warm gloves. And something on his head. Usually, a cap. It kept the sun from burning his bald spot, and
the brim provided some protection for his face.
In the winter, he swapped it out for an insulated cap, with ear
flaps.
Occasionally, he would wear a hat instead of a cap. Sometimes a straw hat for field work in the
summer, because it had a wider brim for more protection from the sun, while
still being light-weight. Mostly,
though, I remember hats as being for special occasions, defined as “not working
in the fields.” He wore a hat to cattle
sales, to church, to ice cream socials and rodeos, and to family gatherings.
One year Dave and I learned that he had wanted a Stetson hat
for a long time, but thought it was a luxury he just could not justify. We could justify it easily; he was my dad,
and it would make him happy. There’s a
Stetson store on Interstate 29 just south of Saint Joseph, MO, which we would
pass every time we went to Kansas City.
We stopped that fall, and with hat size provided by Mom, we picked out
the classic Stetson and wrapped it for Christmas.
I remember well the moment he opened this gift. He unwrapped the hat from its tissue paper
carefully, and just looked at it. His
words, “I always wanted a Stetson, but I didn’t think I would ever have one.
Thank you.” He was a man of very few
words, and that’s all he said, although it was reported that he remarked on
occasion that he was wearing his Stetson.
Those were the days before cell phone cameras that caught every gift opening, so I have no photo to share. I don’t need one, as I shall always remember the look on his face when he realized he was holding a Stetson hat.
A Gift for Beginnings By JoAnne Young
I have no idea how I dreamed it up. Was I
visited in the night by a muse? Was it voodoo or
just an idea swirling around
in the Texas sky, waiting for a target?
It was decades ago, after a “Wanna get married?”
telephone call. I had gone home to my parents’ home in Dallas, leaving Lincoln
after the man had left me for his own future, and ready to make decisions for mine. Then his call came on a May afternoon. And before the idea could
settle in and nest, I was shopping for a wedding dress.
I decided, I’ll just have to make it myself.
This muse would not leave my head, filling it with notions that I could do
this, even though I was not a seamstress, and had only 10 weeks to get it
done.
Honestly, I couldn’t do it today. But with the
exuberance of youth, I designed and sewed a dress with a floor length dotted
swiss skirt over taffeta and a simple ruffle 12 inches from the hem. It fell
from a high waist made of pleated lace, and a poof of dotted swiss at the top
of the sleeve. Underscoring the waist, and at the cuffs and high collar, was a
red silk ribbon under a band of floral lace.
The image of my dream guided and pushed me on
when I faltered.
Best gift I ever gave was to myself: A dress to
begin my forever marriage. And the notion that sometimes persistence and vision
pays, even when you aren’t quite sure how to carry it off.
“You can believe that you are neither a slave to inspiration nor its master, but something far more interesting … its partner.” – Elizabeth Gilbert
The Journal by Mary Reiman
For Christmas in 1983 I gave my mom a blank journal with quotes at the top of each page, such as this from Willa Cather, “There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.”
I asked mom to write her story. She wrote to me almost every
week, so I knew there was writing in her soul, there were memories to be
shared.
For Christmas in 1994 she gave the book back to me. It was
filled with her stories, our stories, in no particular order. Her first
sentence “All the wonders of nature, change of seasons and new creations of
our Lord and Father makes us thankful we have always been plain country folks.”
When she thought of something, she wrote about it. Births
and deaths, her years growing up, life during World War II, marriage,
retirement and all the years between. Everyday adventures, laughter and sorrow,
life on the farm and holiday memories.
“My best memory of Christmas at home was the year of the
great depression. Grandma Chaffin took a favorite old doll of mine... made it
new clothes including a red wool coat and cap and made a quilt for the doll. I
thought it the greatest gift I ever received.”
I now have this journal in her handwriting, hearing her voice as I read it over and over. And even now, as I turn each page, I laugh, I cry and I know how lucky I am that the best Christmas present I ever gave has been returned to me.
A Gift of Release By Penny Costello
My partner, Kate, and I and I have lived together for 25
years. One of our earliest lessons in successful cohabitation, and one of the
best gifts I have given was grocery shopping.
I like grocery shopping. I can be particular about the
brands and varieties of food I select. I enjoy the hunt and the chance to
discover bargains and new delights along the way. And I love the feeling of a
well-stocked kitchen.
As a single mother of two sons who put herself through law
school when the boys were in grade school, for Kate, grocery shopping was just
something that needed to get done. Often it meant corralling those boys and
their growing appetites simultaneously while filling her cart.
I liked the size and variety offered at Super Saver, not to mention the lower prices. She hates big box stores and Muzac. Plus, too many choices is tough on a Libra.
We both like pushing the cart. Kate had perfected what I
call a classic “Mom” move. When I was pushing the cart and stopped to look at
something, she would very gently put her right hand on the cart next to my left
hand, and then in one smooth motion led by her right hip, she would deftly slide
me to the right and place herself in the driver’s seat behind the cart without
a word. It was mastery developed, I was sure, over years of shopping with young
boys. And it was maddening. Invariably, our trips to the store ended in us
feeling inexplicably crabby.
One year, as our anniversary approached, money was tight for
me and I was grappling to come up with the perfect anniversary gift. And then
it hit me.
I proclaimed to Kate that she would never have to go to the
grocery store again unless she wanted to. She was thrilled. It’s a gift that has
kept on giving to us both for over two decades. If we stop at the store while
out running errands, once in awhile, she comes in, but generally she happily waits
in the car. And still to this day she lets me know how much she loves having
that choice. I love the ease that has given her, and it was so easy to give.
A gift of release that both eases and strengthens. Can’t do much better than that.
The Gifts of the Bells By Mary Kay Roth
When I
first volunteered to ring Salvation Army bells, one Christmas Eve morning long
ago, I was a young, single mom who wanted to teach her two young children about
compassion and generosity.
But
down through the years the story has become the stuff of legend in our family.
Personally, I believe we worked a brisk, two-hour stint. However, my daughter, Anna, and my son Josh,
claim they endured at least four hours of ringing, maybe six, on the coldest
wintry day in the history of all wintry days in Nebraska.
Truthfully, the precise details of how our ritual began are likely lost forever. But the important part of our story is this: When I realized we were never going to make it through the entire two hours of bell ringing (or four or six), spontaneously, we started singing Christmas carols.
And it
was magic.
Suddenly
people stopped, smiled, laughed. My kids
giggled and danced. Many coins were
tossed into the bucket. Time slipped away.
So,
for the past 25 years or so, each December we sign up to ring bells and sing
carols on Christmas Eve Day.
At some point we started bringing candy canes for tots, added Santa hats and reindeer antlers. And over the years – whether the day’s weather required T-shirts or long johns – family members joined us and friends stopped by.
Yesterday,
Christmas Eve Day, we gathered once again for Salvation Army bells.
As always, we cried when we sang “Silent Night,” because that one’s for my dad. We winced as Anna belted out her god-awful version of “The Christmas Shoes.” We laughed insanely, performing our signature song, “Santa Baby” – valiantly attempted to remember those elusive Twelve Days of Christmas. And inevitably a few older folks paused when they heard us, asked to hear a favorite carol, then sang along as a tear rolled down their cheek.
Of
course, every year, right in the middle of the crazy chaos, at some point I
always stop singing to quietly ponder this precious moment in time … and those
once young children who have miraculously grown into kind, charitable and
giving adults.
That’s the moment I realize – that of all the countless presents nestled under our Christmas tree over the years, perhaps the most important gifts I have ever shared with my children are the gifts of the bells: generosity, tradition and perchance just a whisper of magic.
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