This year, because I’m a woman of a certain age and can do
it if I want, I gave myself a few holiday gifts (fortunately, the stuff I want
is relatively inexpensive, otherwise it wouldn’t matter if I wanted to or not).
Some of them I’ll share with The Husband; some will be shared with other
people; some will be just for me alone.
I kind of think we should all give ourselves some stuff we
know no one else will give us, either because they can’t possibly know we want
it, or couldn’t possibly choose which one to get, or because that’s the only way
we’re gonna get it because no one else understands why you could possibly want
that thing. I had a friend back in junior high and high school who was a master
at this; she used to get everyone in her family Christmas gifts that she wanted, knowing that her parents and
grandparents and even her older siblings would thank her very much for them and
then suggest she keep them for herself. That way, every year she got the
multi-colored scented-ink pens she craved and that her mother wouldn’t use, the
socks that were covered with glittery stuff that curiously didn’t fit her
father but did fit her, the book of vampire stories her older brother wouldn’t
read, and so on. She had it down to a science.
This year here’s what I gave me. You need to know up front,
before you get all judgey, that I’m not
your average consumer – I rarely buy clothes or shoes (the stuff I wear is
mostly at least a decade old because, oddly and fortunately, it rarely wears
out), or electronics, or pretty much anything except necessities and stuff for
the garden - which is mostly, but not always (wind-thingies and some pretty
perennials) practical stuff; and I get most my books from the Five Colleges
Book Sale (used; cheap):
*The big thing I got me and will share with the Husband is a
bunch of tickets to local-theater-group plays, mostly at the Hatbox Theater in
Concord, a couple at the Hop, one Tuesday-night cheap seat at Northern Stage (King Lear – ya gotta see Shakespeare).
We get to see almost one a month ‘til the Hatbox season ends late summer. And now
we’re old farts, the tickets only cost around 15 bucks each.
*A liquid-soap bottle of fir-scented hand soap. Anyone using
my bathroom can use this, but, oh, the smell just makes my heart sing. I get
the liquid stuff – no, it isn’t ecologically responsible packaging – because I
only do it once every so many years, and the bar soap loses its scent long
before the bar’s used up. I’ve loved washing my hands for weeks, now.
*A package of 6 chocolate-covered cherries. Haven’t opened
them yet. Enjoying thinking about them. But also, one of my very excellent
patients brought me a tin of home-made chocolate-enrobed ginger to die for, and
I’m eking those out, first. The Husband recently found where I’d hidden the
chocolate ginger in the frig, so I expect I’ll be tasting the cherries before
February.
*A small square of goat cheese with edible flowers, from
Australia. It was gone in six bites, and it was worth it.
*A t-shirt that says: Let’s
assume I’m right: It’ll save time. Because wearing it will save a lot of
time. I shoulda got two.
*A handful of expensive but beautiful notecards that I’m
enjoying looking at, and will eventually enjoy sending to a couple of friends
who I know will also enjoy them when they get them. Yes, there are still people
who write letters.
*A bottle of peach-infused white balsamic vinegar. Haven’t
opened it yet; I got The Husband one infused with mango, which we’re delicately
enjoying now. This is vinegar you sip from a tiny little cup – just a little at
a time. It’s quite wondrous.
*Some books no one would ever think to get me, half of them
used, and several I’ll pass on to someone else I know will enjoy them. I’m not
going to tell you the titles because I know she’ll read this blog. One I’ll
describe, however, because everyone should read at least one of these books, is
a reprint of books made from letters written by Isabella Bird in the mid-1850s,
as she traveled, by herself, around the world. She sent amazing descriptive
letters to her sister at home in England, which were eventually given to the
Royal Geographical Society, who as a result made her their first female fellow.
Her stories of where she went, what she saw, what she did, who
she met, are remarkable, and not least because she traveled alone, but also
because she did it on her doctor’s orders – she’d injured her back as a
youngster, and her doctor prescribed travel as a way to keep herself and her
back healthy after she healed. She went all around the world, including to the
US, Hawai’i, Tibet, China, Japan, Estes Park Colorado, and so on, camping out,
helping herd cattle, taking boat trips into the jungle – they’re fascinating
and the books have been reprinted several times by different publishers.
One of her stories that I read earlier was about her trip to
Estes, CO. She traveled there directly from visiting Hawai’i and didn’t have
winter clothes with her. Even so, she went camping in the mountains with the
men, rolling up in a blanket at night for sleeping, and managed to stay long
enough that she got snowed in, so had to spend the winter. She went out on
horseback to help the men round up the cattle to bring them into shelter for
the winter, and stayed in a log cabin that was uncaulked and really meant for
summer tourists. She wrote about waking up in the mornings and having to brush
8 inches of fresh snow off her blanket before she could get out of bed, then
sweep the same amount out her door before going to the better- enclosed cabin
of one of the families who’d settled there for breakfast.
I think of that, and of how much whining I’ve done this
winter since our furnace is still not functional so we’re relying on the
woodstove to heat the house; and I look out the window on this 7-degree night
at the new snow illuminated by the almost-full moon, all glisteny and frigid,
and think, “My god, how wimpy we’ve become!”
*A small cement winged gargoyle for the garden. Because
gargoyles make me smile. As they should everyone.
All these treasures (except the ones I’ve eaten!) are
scattered around my bedroom amidst the gifts I got from family and friends, and
I look happily at them every night before bed, and every morning when I get up,
and I feel rich, and blessed.
And sometimes I think, b’god, I hope we don’t get bombed
before I get a chance to read those and eat that!
Deb Marshall photo: Chickadee
trying to decide whether to approach the seed-covered bird house Mom gave me
for Christmas. A week later, the seeds had all been eaten.
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