Gift Giving, Simplified
The person who says “It’s the thought that counts,” has never received a truly terrible gift, like a filing cabinet. That didn’t happen to me, of course. Just someone I know. And not my mother either, though I do remember the year she got a vacuum cleaner from my father. It might have been the same year my uncle, her brother, also bought her a vacuum cleaner. It’s a sore subject so I wouldn’t dare ask my mother to confirm the timeline, even now, 30 years later.
Honestly, I don’t blame my mother for being aggravated about receiving not one, but two, power vacuums. I mean, if it really is the thought that counts, then what were those guys thinking? That my mother needed to sweep more? No. First of all, our house was never dusty. Even if it was, you don’t wait until Christmas to give a woman with two children and a full-time job a hint like that. If anything, you give her a maid. As an adult, I can see that.
Maybe that’s another important detail to add: I was complicit in giving my mother the vacuum. I was five or so and one of my earliest memories was accompanying my father to a department store to pick this gift. In we walked, past the jewelry department and cosmetics, presumably declining help from well-meaning sales associates who could have saved us from ourselves. Once in-home appliances, we settled on a mauve-colored canister model with a full suite of attachments. One of the main selling points of this particular vacuum was that it was so light, even I could pick it up.
“This will be good on the steps,” my father said, swinging the canister like a kettle bell. “Nice and light.”
Today, I wince just thinking about it — this lightweight, compact vacuum that my mother could easily maneuver around furniture and down a flight of stairs. But, as I child, I didn’t know any better. I read the room, my father being the only other person in it, and got very excited indeed about the prospect of cleaning hardwood floors with the push of a button. Christmas shopping complete, I was under strict orders for the next two weeks not to talk about what we had stashed in the trunk of my father’s Thunderbird, lest I “ruin the surprise.” Not blowing his cover is perhaps the only time during my entire childhood that I managed to keep my mouth shut about anything of significance. And that’s a real shame because if ever there was a time to give someone the head’s up that a terrible gift was on its way, that was it. My father and I, we both failed my mother that year.
Years ago, I read an article by my college English professor about the art of gift giving. A gift, she wrote, can’t be “just anything.” According to her, “It must be something special — something one would not buy for oneself but that, received from the loved one, produces a lurch of surprise and delight at the realization that this is just what one wanted.” So, in other words, not a vacuum.
I will admit that her criteria sound a little lofty. But I think the problem is more a matter of language than concept. I would put it this way: A gift is a treat. A bonus. A touch of frivolity. My professor is exactly right when she says a good gift is something the other person wants but wouldn’t buy for him or herself.
I try to keep that in mind when I do my holiday shopping. Assuming there is no “wish list” to consult or practical needs to be met, I keep my purchase firmly in the fun zone — fun being different things for different people, like two tickets to a José James concert or a 6-quart InstantPot for people not yet familiar with José James. To me, the best gifts are useful but somewhat unnecessary: a frilly apron for the friend who likes to bake; a monogram wax seal for the person who still uses envelopes; color map mugs for the coffee+travel lover. As someone with ample free time and a fair amount of creativity, I go DIY sometimes too, drawing my nephews books by hand and writing them personalized stories. Last I heard, my grandmother still carries around the set of business cards I had printed for her after she complained about never having anything to show for her years in the workforce. I can’t say that all those gifts were hits, but I think the recipients know that I tried. I didn’t mail it in with a pair of Christmas socks and a gift certificate to Red Lobster. I gave it some thought.
When I think of the best gifts I’ve received, it’s the thoughtful ones that I remember too: a decorative oil and vinegar bottle set (I make a lot of salads); a Kindle Unlimited subscription (obvious); a 5W mini bull horn megaphone with push-to-play music (also obvious). Last month, Johann gave me an early Christmas gift: the full-size reindeer pelt that I stop and pet every time we walk through the craft market in Helsinki. I’ve had the chance to buy it a hundred times by now, but never did. I couldn’t justify spending the equivalent of a week’s worth of groceries on something to cover the lower half of our bed. For me, it’s the perfect gift: I love it, but I’d never buy it. He gave it to me in November so that I could enjoy it as soon as possible. He gets it.
Out of fairness, I should say that my father “gets it” now too. About ten years ago, my mother unwrapped a diamond ring on Christmas morning. I don’t know how big it was exactly, but when I saw it, the first word that came to mind was ridiculous. In a good way, of course.
My favorite thing about this particular ring is that it’s modern — a white gold, solitary stone, round cut number that looks a lot like what most of my friends are flashing nowadays. My mother’s hand is like theirs, an in-your-face reminder that she’s got it going on. Her love is young and fresh and just a little bit obnoxious. Except, unlike my friends, she’s sitting on 40 years of experience. She earned that ring. She swept a lot of carpets for it.
So, as we all head into holiday shopping season, I offer this public service announcement: if the recipients on your list insist that they “don’t need anything”, if there is no “Dear Santa” letter provided and you still want to buy something, then go frivolous. Stay away from the gift cards and the scented candles and the neckties and think about what the other person likes. It doesn’t have to be expensive like a diamond ring or elaborate like an exotic animal hide — it doesn’t have to cost any money at all — but it should be something special. Something that “produces a lurch of surprise and delight.” That might take a little bit of extra thought on your part, but you know what they say: It’s the thought that counts.
