DECEMBER 8, 2024 – Amidst telling stories mostly about Christmas past, I must take a break to recount a hilarious story about Christmas present.
My wife was having a rough go at decorating the house. The first problem arose when our nine-year-old granddaughter decided to opt-out of the “festivities.” This choice was a let-down for Beth, and despite my attempts to encourage a change of heart on the part of the child, Illiana stayed focused on other pursuits. One lesson I’ve learned in life is that you can’t force a person to make another person happy without making three people unhappy—counting yourself. So I let the impasse pass.
For reasons similar perhaps to what caused our granddaughter to demur, I didn’t volunteer to help decorate. I wasn’t conscripted either, so unlike our granddaughter, technically I wasn’t a draft-dodger or conscientious objector. The least I could do, however, was to compliment my wife on her efforts. The closest display was a collection of porcelain Christmas trees of various sizes set on a blanket of fake snow, which, in turn was draped over a table near our front entryway. Many of the trees were decorated with lights, though the cords had yet to be plugged into a power strip.
“I like the tree collection,” I said cheerfully. As the words rushed out of my mouth, I noticed that numerous miniature light bulbs were missing from one of the trees. This reminded me of the two big sets of outdoor lights that I’d been tasked with hanging yesterday—until not a single bulb came to life when I plugged in the cords. With a tinge of frustration, Beth had told me, “Just throw them out. It’s not worth the time to try to figure out which bulbs are the faulty ones.”
“Ugh!” Beth said today in response to my cheerful remark about the porcelain trees. “I’m done with those this year. And a lot of other stuff. I’m getting rid of much it after this Christmas. It will all have to stay up until March, though, because I won’t be able to take everything down before my back surgery in January.”
“Under your supervision,” I said, “I’d be happy to take things down and pack them up.”
“No,” she said. “I want it packed up right.” A moment or two later, she expressed frustration with the porcelain tree lights. “Now I’ll have to run up to Target to get replacement lights and some batteries,” she said.
I felt her pain, though not enough to have volunteered for the errand. In my own defense, however, I had an excuse: Even with careful instructions in hand, I was bound to select the wrong kind of bulbs.
Despite this being a most festive season of the year, filled with light and song, punch and presents, good tidings and good will toward humankind, it can also be a stressful time, when decorations fall short of our expectations or, for no reason at all save for a loose fitting, simply fall—to the floor, knocking out the lights.
By the time Beth decided she had to make a Target run, she was quite understandably not a model of Christmas cheer. I decided to give her sleigh of frustrations ample berth.
* * *
What a difference a Target run can make, especially at this “most festive season of the year”!
Beth returned with the (correct) replacement lights and good cheer in her voice. In fact, make that “laughter” in her voice. “You want to hear something hilarious?” she asked. The tale she then told came straight out of Target, where she’d run into a neighbor of ours . . .
By way of background, for nearly as long as Beth and I have lived in our house, the neighbor, a woman about our age, and her husband have lived just four houses away from us. Over the years, we’ve met and greeted each other when out on walks and in fair weather we’ve had friendly street-side talks about one thing or another—nothing about solving the world’s problems, maybe, but nothing that would add to them, either. The couple’s son was in our older son’s cub scout den. The odd thing about the couple, however, is that neither Beth nor I could ever remember the woman’s name.
Beth readily acknowledges that she has always had difficulty remembering names. We joke about it, and whenever we approach social gatherings, she invariably asks me “who is who.” What’s inexplicable is that while I’ve always been good at remembering names and can reliably inform Beth “who is who,” I too always have trouble remembering the name of this particular neighbor.
The mystery might not be such a mystery if the name were common in India but uncommon in Minnesota; 10 syllables long and unpronounceable by our unpracticed provincial tongues. But no, it has just two-syllables, is as simple as can be, without an “s” yet so slippery, it just won’t stick in my memory, let alone Beth’s. Depending on the nature of each passing encounter, either Bob (the husband) or some other neighbor who’s part of the conversation will reveal the woman’s name. Afterward, Beth and I then laugh—again—hoping that this time the name will finally stick yet knowing it probably won’t.
Now to Beth’s encounter with this woman today at Target . . . The exact circumstances of their meeting required more than a smile or “hello.” It called for conversation. Since Bob, the husband, wasn’t in tow and no third party who knew the woman was on hand to reveal our neighbor’s name, Beth was on her own. Except this time, the woman asked Beth, “You know, I’m terribly embarrassed, but Bob and I just can’t remember your name.”
Beth laughed and repeated the woman’s statement, substituting my name for “Bob.”
But here’s the most hilarious part of the exchange: The woman, whose name is R-A-N-D-I, told Beth that she, Beth, reminded Randi of Randi’s college roommate to such a degree that the roommate’s name kept surfacing every time Randi met Beth out and about the neighborhood.
“I knew that couldn’t be,” Randi said. “I knew that just because you remind me so much of my roommate, you wouldn’t have her name.” The roommate’s name? Of course: B-E-T-H!
This gave Beth and Randi lots to laugh about, and Beth brought the laughter back to share with me. As fast as Santa can say, “Ho-ho-ho!” good ol’ Christmas cheer was restored to our household.
And now our mnemonic for remembering Randi’s name: “Beth RAN into Randi at Target.”
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
