DECEMBER 19, 2024 – If you hadn’t noticed, since December 4 my posts have embraced a Christmas theme in keeping with this festive season of the year which has evolved from its pagan roots to its Christian foundation to its steroidal commercial secularism and generic expression, “Happy Holiday!” With still six whole days remaining before the 25th, I’ve exhausted nostalgic recollections—which begs the question: With ample coverage of Christmas past, what material remains for blog posts leading up to Christmases of the future?
That leaves Christmas present—and the challenge of Christmas presents, particularly for my spouse, who, as I heralded (“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”) in yesterday’s post, is fit to be Santa’s Righthand Executive Vice President with a comprehensive executive North Pole management portfolio.
In reflecting on yesterday’s post (“Christmas Gifts”), today I decided to do better on the actual gift-giving front. This decision did not come easily. Measurable over-night snowfall—our first of the season—diverted me from other pressing tasks. Since I’d left the battery to our snowblower up at the Red Cabin (for use with our chainsaw), I was forced to shovel the old-fashioned way.
A double-irony arose out of these circumstances. Still recovering from a nasty, persistent “gunk” cough, I was wary about over-exertion. I’d texted our next-door neighbor to ask if she could use her industrial-gauge gas-powered snowblower on our front sidewalk and one-half of our driveway perhaps. I even offered up our container of gasoline. In response, however, she informed me that she’d just had her appendix taken out. My request for assistance turned into an offer to help her family shovel out. I spent shoveling walks and driveway, and by the time I sank the shovel into the top of the main snowbank behind our back door, I was ready for a long winter’s nap. I did not dream of a white Christmas.
Upon waking, I worked fiendishly to catch up on work. For the last hour of the workday, I felt like an air traffic controller working flights in and out of Chicago’s O’Hare during the peak of holiday travel. After landing my last aircraft (safely), I closed up shop and joined my wife for the ABC Evening News with David Muir. “I like his voice,” said Beth with a chuckle.
After hearing the latest legal posture of the case(s) against “Luigi” and how a billionaire 400 times over (or is he up to 500 times? I lose track) and who has never stood for election for public office; and his partner in plutocracy who’s worth a mere six billion (inflated, of course) and who has a whole month to go before he’s sworn into office, are wielding unprecedented power over the United States House of Representatives and playing a royal game of chicken with bond and equity markets—and roulette with the value of retirement accounts, yours and mine. Oh yes, and there was passing reference to the latest school shooting, which is already fading from our short attention spans.
Beth left the room just before the “happy news”—a segment about mom-and-pop enterprises making and selling unusual things that would make excellent holiday gifts. One featured product was a tissue dispenser in the form of a model house made from cardboard. Clever! I thought. Before Beth returned, David Muir was on to other news. I, however, was furtively online searching “architectural tissue boxes.” BAM! I found the site immediately and checked out the half-dozen models. Each was $75.00—a perfect price, I thought; not something either Beth or I would pay for such a thing outside of Christmas, but given how much Beth has teased, even ridiculed, me over the years for my frugality, she’d be impressed that I’d spend that much on a cardboard house no larger than a Kleenex box. Upon closer inspection, however, the houses looked lame. Worse than lame. Moreover, we have no good place for a box of tissue, let alone a decorative cardboard structure to house a box of tissues. What we have is a box of tissues in a decorative glass case on top of . . . the toilet in the downstairs bathroom. I simply couldn’t envision replacing the glass case with a cardboard model house pretending to mimic a Frank Lloyd Wright design. On top of a toilet?
I quit the site after imagining Beth opening the gift and saying, “Hmmm. What’s this?” and after figuring it out, saying, “Huh. Really? Maybe [our son living in the basement] would like it” and . . . upon reviewing this month’s Visa statement and discovering the charge, adding, “You paid 75 bucks for a Kleenex dispenser?!”
Not the type to give up without a fight, I Googled, “Great Christmas gifts for my wife.” At the top of my search was L.L. Bean. Lots of options, of course, but . . . actually, too many options, and if our closets, dressers, clothes pegs, and baskets here and at the Red Cabin are any indication, we already have a sufficient inventory of Bean-like wear to open a large store called, BEAN THERE, DONE THAT.
The next hit under my search was “25 Great Gift Ideas.” I clicked on the link and seconds later found myself in American marketing hell. The long list of no-name purveyors of gizmos and gadgets reminded me of the wall-to-wall hawkers and hucksters inside the “Merchandise Building” at the Minnesota State Fair. Each fair season they’re locked in vocal competition to sell the latest and greatest slicers and dicers, phone accessories, electronic mops, and self-sharpening kitchen knives.
I was about to give up when . . . WHOA! The perfect gift for Beth, whose main enemy in life is the occasional mouse that finds its way into the basement here or the kitchen or mudroom at the Red Cabin. What caught my eye was not the world’s best mousetrap but a simple device that plugs into an electrical outlet and emits a high-frequency sound wave that drives mice bats—and speaking of which, works on those creatures as well. Decades ago we’d used a different generation of the same kind of device but with less than definitive results. That old versions however, was bigger, clunkier and not as attractive as the “Pest Defence” [sic] version sold online. Desperate to find Christmas presents for Beth, I suspended all skepticism over the “new and improved” model . . . well, nearly all doubt.
I took a moment to check consumer reports on “Pest Defence.” Soon I was sucked into a mouse hole that looked suspect: my initial search produced a list of “10 best rodent control devices,” and surprise, surprise, “Pest Defence” was at the top of the list. Nevertheless, urgency trumped my better judgment. Not only was I trapped by the racing calendar, but I was an easy mark for the multiple discounts that applied to my prospective purchase. The more I lingered on the site, it seemed, the lower the price went—assuming I bought multiple devices. And why not buy several, since the product description explains that since the sound waves don’t penetrate walls, for optimal effect the consumer should have one gizmo for each room? At least I didn’t fall for that. Nor did I go for all the add-ons to protect against “damage in transit” or “theft of the package” after it arrives on our doorstep.
If I’m worried about having to travel to China to chase down “a refund in 30 days if not satisfied,” the website assured me that “We’re located in New Jersey and ship from here by UPS, so you don’t have to worry about your order getting lost in the mail.” Good, I thought, because the only things that doesn’t get lost in our mail are advertising flyers and credit card solicitations . . . . and technically whatever else is in our mail, because if it’s in our mail, it can’t logically be lost in our mail.
Now the only catch is that I have no guarantee that the devices will arrive before Christmas; I was afforded no choice for expedited shipping.
. . . which is why today I arranged renewal for the “best gift” idea I’ve ever devised for Beth: a handsome new bouquet in a vase delivered on the first Wednesday of each month throughout the year. This is my way of keeping Christmas—always on display on our kitchen island counter. This year I’ll add a gift certificate to her latest favorite fancy restaurant.
Thus I finish this latest post in my Christmas series. The future holds ample time and space to rail against the serious shenanigans that rumble relentlessly across the backdrop of our lives. For now we’re still in the holiday season however each of us wishes to celebrate it, and why shouldn’t we be happy and merry about that?
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
