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In praise of Christmas presents
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
December 10, 2009
Dorothy Cummings McLean
The other day I walked to the town post office as part of my ordinary domestic chores. It was this side of the first of December, so I idly asked how much it would cost to send a Christmas card to Canada.
“You’d have to bring them in, dear,” was the answer. “They’d have to be weighed.”
“Alrighty then,” I said.
“You’d have to bring them in, dear,” was the answer. “They’d have to be weighed.”
“Alrighty then,” I said.
“The Christmas deadline to Canada is the fifth of December.”
“The FIFTH of December!?”
There followed an explosion of activity. I shopped, I wrapped, I addressed. I was back in the post office the very next day with 30 Christmas cards and eight Christmas presents divided into three brown paper parcels. These were weighed and stamped and chucked into the appropriate slots. I went on my way rejoicing.
Then I discovered an article in the online National Post telling me that Christmas presents are a waste of money.
“Bah, humbug,” I shouted but read on.
A man named Joel Waldfogel has written a book called Scroogenomics: Why You Shouldn’t Buy Presents for the Holidays (Princeton University Press). He claims that people value things they buy for themselves much more than the things they receive from their loved ones. But it is unlikely that wasteful holiday gift-giving will ever disappear, he admits, so engrained is it in society. Cash gifts might be a solution, if only they would lose their stigma.
Whatever happened to it being the thought that counted? I am sitting here typing, thousands of kilometres from my family, and I can tell you that I want my Christmas presents. A Christmas present, no matter how strange or impractical, is an extension of a loved one. And since I won’t be able to see most of my loved ones at Christmas, I want to see their extensions. I want proof that, for perhaps 15 harried minutes, loved ones thought, “Now what would Dorothy like?” Even if they came up with the wrong answer, at least they thought of me, just as I thought of them in my mad Scottish shopping scramble. Our gifts, however tiny or dumb, are messengers of our love.
Presents imply presence. There are homes in which people find their gifts under the tree and retreat into corners with their loot to gloat or mourn silently. The Cummings house is not among them, and neither shall be the house of the McLeans. The traditional gift-giving in the Cummings household is as follows: a Cummings sibling puts on the now 35-year old Santa Claus hat and distributes the presents one at a time, loudly announcing both the giver and the recipient. Everyone watches intently as the recipient slowly unwraps their present.
“A (fill in blank)” shouts the recipient. “Oh, (giver) How (positive adjective)! Thank you very much!”
They kiss, and the attention of the rest of the family returns to the pile under the Christmas tree. Our gift-giving is as ritualistic as a Japanese tea ceremony, and I love it. Maybe it’s not just the thought, but the ritual that counts.
Babies are born Christmas ritualists. Watch any toddler on Christmas morning and you will see what I mean. For an infant, it’s not about the toy or clothing. It’s about the wrapping. Present a toddler with a gift, and she or he will rip off a handful of wrapping and start playing with it. She or he will shake it up and down, grinning. The ribbons and bows add to the enjoyment. But whatever is in the box doesn’t seem to matter to them. There are lessons to be learned here. One is that you don’t have to think hard about presents for babies.
But I have to admit that from the earliest times, I have not only enjoyed but catalogued the contents of the wrapping paper. For example, in 1987, I received black lingerie from my American grandmother. I’m not sure what she was thinking, but I was thrilled. Other notable gifts included a tape deck (from mum and dad), an Italian dictionary (from mum and dad), pajamas (from my Canadian grandmother) and the 1988 Star Trek calendar (from my brother George). Of these, only the dictionary remains today. Contemplated 22 years later, it really was the thought, the ritual and the love that counted.
Meanwhile, some presents can have far-reaching effects well beyond anyone’s expectations. My first voluntary composition reads as follows: “My name is Dorothy. I’m 7 years old. I received this on X-mas.” It’s on the first page of a blue, hardcover, formerly blank book, perhaps not the first gift one would think of for a child of seven. But on the second page is my first poem and on the third is my first restaurant review. (“That tea was yucky.”) The entries are sporadic, but it is clear that, however slowly, a writing habit was being developed. I’m not sure who gave me this worn blue book, but whoever it was, I’m so glad they didn’t give me cash instead.
“The FIFTH of December!?”
There followed an explosion of activity. I shopped, I wrapped, I addressed. I was back in the post office the very next day with 30 Christmas cards and eight Christmas presents divided into three brown paper parcels. These were weighed and stamped and chucked into the appropriate slots. I went on my way rejoicing.
Then I discovered an article in the online National Post telling me that Christmas presents are a waste of money.
“Bah, humbug,” I shouted but read on.
A man named Joel Waldfogel has written a book called Scroogenomics: Why You Shouldn’t Buy Presents for the Holidays (Princeton University Press). He claims that people value things they buy for themselves much more than the things they receive from their loved ones. But it is unlikely that wasteful holiday gift-giving will ever disappear, he admits, so engrained is it in society. Cash gifts might be a solution, if only they would lose their stigma.
Whatever happened to it being the thought that counted? I am sitting here typing, thousands of kilometres from my family, and I can tell you that I want my Christmas presents. A Christmas present, no matter how strange or impractical, is an extension of a loved one. And since I won’t be able to see most of my loved ones at Christmas, I want to see their extensions. I want proof that, for perhaps 15 harried minutes, loved ones thought, “Now what would Dorothy like?” Even if they came up with the wrong answer, at least they thought of me, just as I thought of them in my mad Scottish shopping scramble. Our gifts, however tiny or dumb, are messengers of our love.
Presents imply presence. There are homes in which people find their gifts under the tree and retreat into corners with their loot to gloat or mourn silently. The Cummings house is not among them, and neither shall be the house of the McLeans. The traditional gift-giving in the Cummings household is as follows: a Cummings sibling puts on the now 35-year old Santa Claus hat and distributes the presents one at a time, loudly announcing both the giver and the recipient. Everyone watches intently as the recipient slowly unwraps their present.
“A (fill in blank)” shouts the recipient. “Oh, (giver) How (positive adjective)! Thank you very much!”
They kiss, and the attention of the rest of the family returns to the pile under the Christmas tree. Our gift-giving is as ritualistic as a Japanese tea ceremony, and I love it. Maybe it’s not just the thought, but the ritual that counts.
Babies are born Christmas ritualists. Watch any toddler on Christmas morning and you will see what I mean. For an infant, it’s not about the toy or clothing. It’s about the wrapping. Present a toddler with a gift, and she or he will rip off a handful of wrapping and start playing with it. She or he will shake it up and down, grinning. The ribbons and bows add to the enjoyment. But whatever is in the box doesn’t seem to matter to them. There are lessons to be learned here. One is that you don’t have to think hard about presents for babies.
But I have to admit that from the earliest times, I have not only enjoyed but catalogued the contents of the wrapping paper. For example, in 1987, I received black lingerie from my American grandmother. I’m not sure what she was thinking, but I was thrilled. Other notable gifts included a tape deck (from mum and dad), an Italian dictionary (from mum and dad), pajamas (from my Canadian grandmother) and the 1988 Star Trek calendar (from my brother George). Of these, only the dictionary remains today. Contemplated 22 years later, it really was the thought, the ritual and the love that counted.
Meanwhile, some presents can have far-reaching effects well beyond anyone’s expectations. My first voluntary composition reads as follows: “My name is Dorothy. I’m 7 years old. I received this on X-mas.” It’s on the first page of a blue, hardcover, formerly blank book, perhaps not the first gift one would think of for a child of seven. But on the second page is my first poem and on the third is my first restaurant review. (“That tea was yucky.”) The entries are sporadic, but it is clear that, however slowly, a writing habit was being developed. I’m not sure who gave me this worn blue book, but whoever it was, I’m so glad they didn’t give me cash instead.
Dorothy Cummings McLean