Shovel

One snowy year, I was maybe four or five, I wanted a snow shovel my size. My brothers shoveled, my parents shoveled, I was stuck standing around feeling useless. I wanted to help in a fun job. I had gotten the hang of asking for gifts, and had utter faith in Santa Claus. Ok, maybe I was testing that faith, not entirely sure at this remove. So, I refused to ask for anything, and only told Santa, or rather every Santa I was taken to, that all I wanted was a snow shovel. May have had to do with me getting a "toy" ironing board, with iron that got warm, the previous year. And given the job of ironing my father's white handkerchiefs.

I'm not sure about how mom found out, she has told the story since of the year I only wanted one thing, and only told Santa. And finding a child size shovel was not easy, apparently. But sure enough, on Christmas morning, there it was. With Jack-be-nimble jumping over a candlestick on a shovel I could use. I loved it, I shoveled with it, I made snow architecture with it. I lost it.

It showed up in the spring, after the snow melted in the back yard. It had been a very snowy year. I used it for many years, and jumped imaginary candles for Jack, while admiring the gift Santa brought.

The very best part of Santa gifts were that I did not have to thank anyone for them. By being good, I'd sort of earned them. Having a coal furnace growing up, I could easily picture a stocking with a lump of coal. Unlike pretending joy at a hard plastic doll, too small flannel pjs, or Aunt Betty's homemade toys, (one - an undisguised egg carton with numbers, and some ping pong balls.) Which, I suppose, if she'd actually liked me, might have been fine. I had to thank her as effusively as for Aunt Evelyn's Bell-hop toy, which I played with until it came apart, repeatedly.

Most of the gifts I was given as a child were because it was expected, not by me. I was nearly the only child in the whole extended family at the time, I had an impressive number of packages to open. Which I am grateful for, but they all imposed an overwhelming obligation. I remember few of them. To this day, I detest obligatory gifts, given or received.

I want no gifts. Not "for Christmas." A spontaneous gift of the heart, I can accept gladly. I love to give such. I got D a Cube amp, red, last month, called it a Christmas present, but it was really just to encourage him to play guitar more. He got me Imogen, the Macbook, for practical reasons, and in a burst of generosity. For Christmas, but not really. I unwrap sterile supplies all day long, unwrapping a gift has lost it's cachet.


These days, a helping hand, food ordered in, a small grace, relief arriving a little early, a cat on my ankles at night, health obtained, a small journey, the lost found, a song remembered and shared, another breath, all seem more glorious gifts than any tangible item could be.