haven’t heard anything, except from Meg and now you.”
I hear a crash over the telephone line. I think it’s her dog.
“Gotta go. Let me know if you find out who’s sending them. What a fun thought!”
My research is cut short by a return call from a principal whose students are collecting canned goods and cash for needy families.
“We’re trying to teach kids to look at giving instead of just receiving,” she tells me. “One of our students felt so good about giving that she donated a piggy bank full of pennies she has been saving.”
“Did you ask the families if they want your help?” I ask the principal.
I immediately regret the question.
I know the proverb, better to give than receive, but I wonder how often the receiver feels like my family—bamboozled by unwanted acts of kindness. We’re just supposed to be grateful. I’m supposed to be grateful.
“Excuse me?”
I end the interview quickly and think about cutting her quotes out of the story, but I leave a few lines. For the first time, since October 8, I want to finish my work and get home. I want to be there if another gift arrives.
I make a final call before leaving the office. Charlotte picks up the receiver after the first ring and starts talking immediately.
“Did you get the bike? How about a tree? Have you started decorating the house?”
The answer is negative on all questions, so I ignore them.
“We got another anonymous gift. It came when I wasn’t home, and Meg heard them come up to the front door. I’m worried.”
“I can’t imagine they mean you harm.”
“Everyone’s upset. Nick is having nightmares.”
Charlotte pauses, and then says gently, “It’s not the gifts they’re upset about, Jo.”
I can’t argue with that.
Hoping to make up for last night’s meal, I stop at the grocery on the way home. Four teenagers wielding trumpets, a trombone, and a clarinet stand in front of the store playing “O Christmas Tree,” while another hits shoppers up for donations. A poster board leaning against a stack of rock salt indicates they’re collecting funds for a local family in need. The poster is embellished with hand-drawn sprigs of holly, similar to the one on our first anonymous note. I recognize the band members as classmates of Ben’s, but I don’t know them personally. I dig through my change purse for a donation, wondering if the offering will be used to buy additional secret gifts for my family.
I drop a few coins and what I worry might actually be two Tums into the slot at the top of the collection bucket and walk into the store.
I draw out my shopping experience in the hopes the teens will be finished with their good deed by the time I’m done. I’m relieved to see they are gone when I exit, but I can’t catch a break today. There are Cub Scouts circling the parking lot like little blue vultures.
“Have you bought a Christmas tree yet, lady?”
I want to tell the kid it’s none of his business, but his scoutmaster is watching. So I hand the boy a five dollar donation, load my groceries into the trunk of the car, and drive home.
When I arrive, the garage door is open, the overhead light is on, and our Christmas tree stand is sitting in my parking space. I let the car idle in the driveway thinking I should go move the tree stand. No doubt Megan is responsible for its strategic placement.
I shift the car into gear, put my foot on the gas, and I run over the metal tree stand, back up, and drive over it again.
Nick was right. I can’t escape Christmas, but I can roll right past it with a V-6 engine and a good set of tires.
The emotional high I get from my act of defiance fades as I begin thinking how to explain the homicide of the tree stand to Megan. Like everything else, I add it to my list of problems to figure out. I don’t even bother to hide the evidence this time. I leave the smashed stand on the garage floor under the car.
My daughter is over the moon when I walk into the house
I hear a crash over the telephone line. I think it’s her dog.
“Gotta go. Let me know if you find out who’s sending them. What a fun thought!”
My research is cut short by a return call from a principal whose students are collecting canned goods and cash for needy families.
“We’re trying to teach kids to look at giving instead of just receiving,” she tells me. “One of our students felt so good about giving that she donated a piggy bank full of pennies she has been saving.”
“Did you ask the families if they want your help?” I ask the principal.
I immediately regret the question.
I know the proverb, better to give than receive, but I wonder how often the receiver feels like my family—bamboozled by unwanted acts of kindness. We’re just supposed to be grateful. I’m supposed to be grateful.
“Excuse me?”
I end the interview quickly and think about cutting her quotes out of the story, but I leave a few lines. For the first time, since October 8, I want to finish my work and get home. I want to be there if another gift arrives.
I make a final call before leaving the office. Charlotte picks up the receiver after the first ring and starts talking immediately.
“Did you get the bike? How about a tree? Have you started decorating the house?”
The answer is negative on all questions, so I ignore them.
“We got another anonymous gift. It came when I wasn’t home, and Meg heard them come up to the front door. I’m worried.”
“I can’t imagine they mean you harm.”
“Everyone’s upset. Nick is having nightmares.”
Charlotte pauses, and then says gently, “It’s not the gifts they’re upset about, Jo.”
I can’t argue with that.
Hoping to make up for last night’s meal, I stop at the grocery on the way home. Four teenagers wielding trumpets, a trombone, and a clarinet stand in front of the store playing “O Christmas Tree,” while another hits shoppers up for donations. A poster board leaning against a stack of rock salt indicates they’re collecting funds for a local family in need. The poster is embellished with hand-drawn sprigs of holly, similar to the one on our first anonymous note. I recognize the band members as classmates of Ben’s, but I don’t know them personally. I dig through my change purse for a donation, wondering if the offering will be used to buy additional secret gifts for my family.
I drop a few coins and what I worry might actually be two Tums into the slot at the top of the collection bucket and walk into the store.
I draw out my shopping experience in the hopes the teens will be finished with their good deed by the time I’m done. I’m relieved to see they are gone when I exit, but I can’t catch a break today. There are Cub Scouts circling the parking lot like little blue vultures.
“Have you bought a Christmas tree yet, lady?”
I want to tell the kid it’s none of his business, but his scoutmaster is watching. So I hand the boy a five dollar donation, load my groceries into the trunk of the car, and drive home.
When I arrive, the garage door is open, the overhead light is on, and our Christmas tree stand is sitting in my parking space. I let the car idle in the driveway thinking I should go move the tree stand. No doubt Megan is responsible for its strategic placement.
I shift the car into gear, put my foot on the gas, and I run over the metal tree stand, back up, and drive over it again.
Nick was right. I can’t escape Christmas, but I can roll right past it with a V-6 engine and a good set of tires.
The emotional high I get from my act of defiance fades as I begin thinking how to explain the homicide of the tree stand to Megan. Like everything else, I add it to my list of problems to figure out. I don’t even bother to hide the evidence this time. I leave the smashed stand on the garage floor under the car.
My daughter is over the moon when I walk into the house
Similar Books
