Truth be told, those gift-seeking jaunts with my mom didn't last too long. As soon as I turned eight or nine, she headed back to work at night. And, for a few years, her Christmas presents were those homemade holiday ornaments that she fashioned out of some coat hangers that were spraypainted gold. I've told that story here before.
But, almost overnight, our family had gone from big gift shoppers to "let's get this over as fast as possible." Suddenly, money in an envelope was the way to go.
"Here. Use this to buy something you want."
Five dollars here. Ten dollars here. It added up and that usually resulted in a December 26 journey to Shipman's Toy Store for me.
Of course, when I was fourteen, my annual Christmas (and combination birthday present) present came in the form of my Saturday ticket plan at Shea Stadium. For ten whole years, my parents bought me off with this generous display of generosity. As soon as I was out of college and working on my own, Dad made the long-awaited announcement.
"Okay, you can pay for them now. I'll give you cash instead."
Cash? Always king.
So, with Christmas gifting now as blase and a virtual afterthought with both my parents and my grandmother downstairs, I picked up the gauntlet. During both my high school and college years, I went completely overboard. I overcompensated for my family's now-lackadaisical approach to the holidays by becoming a manic gift giver. Having some bucks due to my parttime jobs also helped.
It was now me heading out to the stores in a frenzy to buy presents not only for my family, but my growing list of friends as well. As I got older, I stopped heading to Fourth Avenue with my Christmas list. Stores on the Avenue had changed in quality as the city's population evolved and deteriorated over time. If you wanted to give a pal some junk for Christmas, Mount Vernon was the place to shop.
I didn't give junk. I headed out instead to the Emerald City of stores.
Cross County in Yonkers.
I wasn't driving yet in high school, so I was dependent upon the Westchester County bus system. I picked up the bus in front of some tavern on Scott's Bridge and it zigzagged through Fleetwood and Yonkers until it dumped me off in front of the now-defunct John Wanamaker's department store. I rarely got a ride to Cross County from my dad. The blue building in the background was Cross County Hospital and his brother died there at the age of 45. As a result, Dad avoided this shopping mall at all costs.
I'd hit Wanamaker's first and their appliance department was usually a stop for a gift to Dad. My father had gotten himself into cooking the family dinner on Sunday, so I usually would get him the hottest new kitchen gadget. With the same reaction.
"What the hell is this?"
I'd explain all the features as if I was a host on the Home Shopping Network. Ultimately, he would use it. Sometimes in July after countless reminders from me.
"How come you don't use that thing I got you for Christmas?"
My mother was into clown figurines and, over the span of about two decades, she got one of those from me every single Christmas. Eventually, ceramic clowns could be found on furniture all around her. Now they're all over my New York abode.
Friends were toughest to buy for. I'd always opt for either a record (remember those?) at Sam Goody's or a book at Paperback Booksmith. I'd invariably stand in one of those stores holding two items and deliberating which one to buy. I would become convinced that my friend already had one of the items. This then morphed into a full-blown panic attack. And I'd buy neither only to have to come back to the store on another trip to revisit the entire decision all over again.
And then there was my bizarre way to prioritize purchases for my friends. In my head, I had these pals in rank order of importance. I suddenly would become obsessed in making sure that gift prices coincided perfectly with that pecking order.
"Well, I can't spend 20 dollars for X and only 15 dollars for Y, when Y is a closer friend than X."
Stupid, I know. But the debates in my mind were very real. Once again, I would become so paralyzed by this process that I'd wind up going back to Cross County another time to get it settled.
And then there was a Christmas gift for Grandma. She was impossible. And I've written about this annual dilemma before.
Here was a woman you couldn't Christmas shop for. Because if you asked her what she wanted, she'd wave you off immediately.
"I don't need nothing."
And she really didn't. But then you would ask her what she wanted.
"I don't want nothing."
It was the same drill year after year. You would think that my relatives would learn their lesson. They never did.
And so, one Christmas after another, they fell over backwards trying to buy her a present. And then they would get indignant when she didn't like it. I used to hold my breath every year when the inevitable gift exchange would happen and somebody would dumbly bestow her with some wrapped package.
"What the hell is this?"
A Christmas present for you, of course.
"I don't need nothing. I don't want nothing."
So we heard. And then we got to watch her open a gift from a family member that might as well have been picked out of an office grab bag. Because they always seemed to be selected without a single thought that this was a woman who virtually never left her house past her front porch or her backyard, except for her Thursday morning trips to the A&P and her monthly visit to her doctor in a Bronx neighborhood she called "Jew Town." After opening a box, she'd always look up quizzically.
"What the hell is this?"
Like mother, like son.
Very fancy gloves for when you go out to some place nice.
She waved them off as if they were mental patients. And she was right. In all the years I knew her, I never remember her ever once going to some place nice. I never remember seeing her in a restaurant. The fanciest it ever got for her was either a wedding or a funeral.
It got worse.
The next year, she opened a small box to reveal a very exquisite watch.
"What the hell is this?"
It was explained this was a wrist watch that she could wear out. For instance, she could check the time when she was waiting for the bus.
Huh? Grandma waved them off. I almost did the same.
For this simple woman, a gift was purchased as if she was a high-powered commuter on "Mad Men" headed for her job at a major New York advertising agency. The gloves and the watch were tossed back as was pretty much everything else she ever got for Christmas.
The one year I decided to join the Grandma Christmas Gift fiasco, I thought I had hit on a great idea. I had gotten tired of looking at the little kitty cat cookie jar she kept in the pantry, always chock full of chocolate chip cookies. It had been around pretty much since Roosevelt beat Alf Landon. At the time, the Pillsbury Doughboy had made his first Poppin' Fresh appearance on television and I had found a cookie jar version in a store.
As perfect as it was, I still held my breath as she opened the package.
"Now THIS is something I can use."
And she did for the rest of her life. The kitty cat was retired to another shelf. I had scored a big, big win.
After she died, I know one of my cousins claimed the kitty cat cookie jar. But I immediately pulled in the Pillsbury Doughboy. And it is the one memento I have of my grandmother. Two years ago, I finally shipped it from the NY abode to the LA apartment.
Always chock full of chocolate chip cookies.
Back at Cross County, I was eventually laden down with more packages than I could carry. I'd go back on the bus in some klunky fashion like Jerry Lewis in "The Bellboy." Then, with the same bundles, I'd get off the bus at Scott's Bridge and then drag myself and the bags over ice and snow four blocks to my home on Fifteenth Avenue.
Was it worth it?
You bet. Because I was singlehandedly keeping the spirit of Christmas alive in my house.
Dinner last night: Hangar steak at the Glass House Tavern.
1 comment:
Don't get upset when a guest hits the cookie jar more than once.
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