Christmas Abundance
National Public Radio presented a piece last week that was probably sponsored by Walmart. Apparently, some of the most important Americans spent most of their lives deeply in debt and died in reduced straights, so to speak. For example, towards the end of his life, Thomas Jefferson petitioned the governor of Virginia to allow him to sponsor a lottery to relieve his debts from his addiction to botany. He couldn’t stop spending on plants. In addition, he had catalogued every single one of his expenses, I’d like to point out to my husband, and he was a founding father.
Mark Twain continued to invest in venture after venture even after some of the businesses went belly up. In fact, it seems that having Mr. Twain invest money in your project was almost a guarantee of failure.
The gist of the story was that the greater the person, the more forgivable the debts. I may be a bit optimistic here in assuming that’s what the reporter meant, but what better time of year to feel validated in your pursuit of debt?
Yoga Journal had an article about celebrating a non-commercial Christmas, suggesting that my family would appreciate handmade gifts from me. Really? They would have to be in some altered Zen state, the highly developed “bonkers state,” to actually want anything handmade from me.
My kids would put me in a home if I gave them booklets promising them an afternoon alone with me or a foot massage. For one, they know it will never happen and for two, they have already spent plenty of time alone with me and unless I bring a checkbook, they aren’t interested anymore, thanks and call again.
I believe in spending, let’s just say it right here and now. My favorite memory in the world is of looking out the back door and seeing our tan ’54 Chrysler New Yorker with the back seat full and overflowing with boxes. That’s how you knew it was Christmas Eve.
My dad always waited until the last minute and on December 24th, at 8 PM, he went to Jerry’s hardware store for his annual shopping spree. I vaguely remember writing lists for Santa, but I don’t remember getting anything I wanted. Christmas presents rested solely on the whims of the gods.
In retrospect, it seems my mother must have bought some particulars: the Ginny doll you wanted with the red velvet coat and hat, and the right new outfit to wear to Mass Christmas Day. One year there was a green woolen skirt and matching cardigan laid out on a chair in a kind of department store display mode that was very daring for our family. Gift presentation under our tree was pretty straight-forward and relied more on the novelty of the bounty than on bows.
But Daddy’s gifts from Jerry’s were just smashing. There were games, Clue and Monopoly, and baseball mitts for all. Trucks and trains for the boys. And balls and pogo sticks and stilts and new bikes and roller skates. There were real plastic music instruments: French horns and clarinets and drums. And Etch-a-Sketchs, and mazes to wind marbles through.
Christmas afternoon meant riding your bike or skating outside until your nose was so red and runny that you had to come in or wipe it on the sleeve of your new coat. Remember the feeling of wiping your nose on rough wool and snagging your nostril on a button?
After dinner, there was a new Nancy Drew to crack open or the Mona Lisa to paint-by-number.
My dad was the Thomas Jefferson of Christmas: big plans that made lasting changes in the way we saw things. Most of what he bought us wasn’t expensive—plastic clarinets and balls. It was the sheer extravagance of the way he bought it. It was the feeling of abundance. It was unselfish and most of all, it was fun.
Mark Twain continued to invest in venture after venture even after some of the businesses went belly up. In fact, it seems that having Mr. Twain invest money in your project was almost a guarantee of failure.
The gist of the story was that the greater the person, the more forgivable the debts. I may be a bit optimistic here in assuming that’s what the reporter meant, but what better time of year to feel validated in your pursuit of debt?
Yoga Journal had an article about celebrating a non-commercial Christmas, suggesting that my family would appreciate handmade gifts from me. Really? They would have to be in some altered Zen state, the highly developed “bonkers state,” to actually want anything handmade from me.
My kids would put me in a home if I gave them booklets promising them an afternoon alone with me or a foot massage. For one, they know it will never happen and for two, they have already spent plenty of time alone with me and unless I bring a checkbook, they aren’t interested anymore, thanks and call again.
I believe in spending, let’s just say it right here and now. My favorite memory in the world is of looking out the back door and seeing our tan ’54 Chrysler New Yorker with the back seat full and overflowing with boxes. That’s how you knew it was Christmas Eve.
My dad always waited until the last minute and on December 24th, at 8 PM, he went to Jerry’s hardware store for his annual shopping spree. I vaguely remember writing lists for Santa, but I don’t remember getting anything I wanted. Christmas presents rested solely on the whims of the gods.
In retrospect, it seems my mother must have bought some particulars: the Ginny doll you wanted with the red velvet coat and hat, and the right new outfit to wear to Mass Christmas Day. One year there was a green woolen skirt and matching cardigan laid out on a chair in a kind of department store display mode that was very daring for our family. Gift presentation under our tree was pretty straight-forward and relied more on the novelty of the bounty than on bows.
But Daddy’s gifts from Jerry’s were just smashing. There were games, Clue and Monopoly, and baseball mitts for all. Trucks and trains for the boys. And balls and pogo sticks and stilts and new bikes and roller skates. There were real plastic music instruments: French horns and clarinets and drums. And Etch-a-Sketchs, and mazes to wind marbles through.
Christmas afternoon meant riding your bike or skating outside until your nose was so red and runny that you had to come in or wipe it on the sleeve of your new coat. Remember the feeling of wiping your nose on rough wool and snagging your nostril on a button?
After dinner, there was a new Nancy Drew to crack open or the Mona Lisa to paint-by-number.
My dad was the Thomas Jefferson of Christmas: big plans that made lasting changes in the way we saw things. Most of what he bought us wasn’t expensive—plastic clarinets and balls. It was the sheer extravagance of the way he bought it. It was the feeling of abundance. It was unselfish and most of all, it was fun.
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