Christmas Presents

          The first Christmas presents I remember buying were ordered from the back of a magazine: a nifty wooden tray with indentions where my father was supposed to drop his keys, wallet, spare change (he never used it); and a bracelet of colored stones for my mother. She must have sent the money in for me, deducting it from my allowance. How else would I have managed it?

          Favorite Christmas presents I received vividly stand out in my memory: the doll hair-salon with its black and white checkerboard floor and pink plastic sinks that used real water; the little cast iron pioneer stove; my first, and only, microscope.  But the most favorite gift of all was the bulky, red-orange, v-necked, cable-knit mohair sweater that was all the rage in 1963. Orange was my favorite color, the color of the papier mache cat exotic Syrah, from Pakistan, gave me. I think my mother met her in a German language class they were both taking at Santa Monica College.

          Orange was the color of fresh-squeezed juice from a Valencia orange and the wild nastursiums that bloomed along our creek.  And that mohair was so plush, so unlike the hard surfaces of our modern house, with walls of glass and floors of terrazzo. I longed for something soft, and that sweater was it.  I’m sure it made me look like I was being devoured by a big hairy monster, but maybe my helmet of teased and sprayed hair somehow balanced it out.

          Looking around my house I see gifts from friends spanning our 30, 40, even 50-year friendships.  How well my friends know me! I treasure the lovely Chinese bowl from Katherine, the antique pitcher from Marie, the English tea pot from Joan.  I love to wear the soft purple top from Jane, the embossed black velvet scarf from Karen, Lynne’s custom made dichroic glass necklaces.  I treasure books from ex-boyfriends, even though I have no idea where the men are now.  Memories are abstract but gifts are real.

          Which is why I’m sad that this year I won’t be buying presents for my friends.  Yesterday, running errands, I allowed myself to browse in Pier One. I inhaled deeply the musky incense and wandered around touching things: jewel-colored humming bird ornaments, ceramic measuring spoons, silky place mats, smooth wooden boxes. I started to think, maybe I should buy gifts, but then thought about having to package the fragile items, the cost of postage and the Suze Orman voice in my head said, “NO!” So I mustered my self-control and left the store without a backward glance.

          Then, I thought, “I should at least buy some token gifts for the little boys I know,” so I stopped in at Dollar General.  After a few minutes browsing the toys I became light headed and thought I was going to faint. I couldn’t faint in a store! “Keep walking!” my inner voice said. I walked around the store, feeling dizzy and thinking, “Maybe this is a heart attack!”  but I just kept walking. I got in the car and pulled out into traffic, thinking, “Just get home!”  and a wave swept over me, as if I were melting. A panic attack.

          I made it home. I laid on the couch with the cat. I did not have a heart attack. What I have is heart ache. That we’re broke. That I’m so far away from my friends, that I didn’t get the job I applied for (it’s ok, it was 22 miles away and I’d rather work closer to home), that Poetry Out Loud will happen without me, both here and in California, that everyone says I’m doing so well, “getting out there” but I feel this huge looming, scary void.  My philosophy that you must visualize the life you want fails me because I have no idea what I want for the rest of my life. All I know for sure is that there will be even more sadness as we all get old, sick and die! And my lovely treasures that I value for their beauty and for the friends who gave them to me, will just end up in the trash, or on a dusty shelf in some dingy thrift store. 

          Or, wait! Maybe I won’t be cremated. Maybe I’ll stipulate that I be buried in a coffin crowded with my knick knacks, festooned with jewelry, wrapped in scarves, and packed in tight with crumpled letters from my dear, sweet, funny friends and family so that they are mine, for all eternity.