family

Mom

~ sablewis ~ Leave a comment

My first and best girlfriend, my mom, died on April 10, 2021, in the loving arms of my brother Scott, and her husband of 61 years by her side. Mildred Ann Young Burgess is her given name but of course Millie is how most of you know her. Mom was born December 16, 1941, in Macomb, Illinois to the parents of Tresler and Mildred Ailene Marrs Young. After a storied courtship, she married our Dad, Don Burgess of Aledo, Illinois in 1960 and it was then their life together began in Rock Island, Illinois. As a woman ahead of her time, while married and raising two young sons, Mom completed her teaching degree at Augustana College. After the birth of her third child, me, Mom’s storied career as a kindergarten teacher began in Matherville, Illinois and her devotion to public education would continue after our move to Girard in 1972.

To countless people, Mom was known as Mrs. Burgess, and she held many roles in the school system. These roles ranged from numerous volunteer positions, substitute teacher, teacher aide, to finally, her coveted position of kindergarten teacher. Teaching was her passion. One of her favorite activities to do were “cooking units” where she taught students many skills in one venture; and “students could learn virtually all subjects by learning how to scramble an egg.” However, her true reasoning for this activity was “to teach children survival skills for the present and the future.” She felt play was an immeasurable marker of learning and spent countless Saturdays scouring garage sales for classroom toys, games, and puzzles. Upon her retirement in 2000, Mom said would work as a substitute if she were “bored or broke” but she was neither. However, she continued to be involved in the school system and produced monthly the school board news for the local paper. She relished this time with her former comrades and enjoyed her new role as “Ace Reporter.”

Mom loved sports and she loved all things Big Red and the now North Mac Panthers. She was famous for running both a football pool at Girard (where Coach Parmentier referred to her as the “resident bookie”) and a bragging rights family football pool. Before the term “sports mom” was fashionable, she fit the definition perfectly even washing not only our uniforms but other kids as well. Mom was famous for getting grass stains out of white football pants, but more famous for helping kids in need, with that wash, a soft shoulder, or a warm dinner. Her loyalty and passion continued as a sports Mimi who let neither sleet, rain, snow, or heat keep her from watching her second generation loves compete. Like with us, she was there to celebrate victories and to wipe away tears in defeat. When given a chance, she often shared her strategies with the coaches, and one coach in particular laughed when he told me, “Millie let me know when I wasn’t doing so well, but she also told me when I did okay.”

Mom’s passion for play, for her family, for her friends, is perhaps best remembered on the Burgess Rocky Beach. In the 48 years we lived at Sunset Lake, Mom hosted hundreds of people at her home, from adults, to teenagers, to children. Summer holidays were the favorite and Mom loved to hold gatherings- no one left without a meal, a beverage, a boat ride, a swim, or a laugh. Fourth of July was a beloved holiday and the parties were legendary. Because she constantly worried that people would not have enough to eat, Mom’s tables were always bountiful. She loved to cook for guests and for her family and up until just recently, she was the top chef at Burgess and Son, Inc. Perhaps one of her greatest accolades was when a foreign exchange student from Italy ate an entire meatloaf of hers as he related he’d never “had anything so wonderful.” Mom shopped, baked, and cooked relentlessly for her family and my back patio was a constant drop off of goodies for the grands because I “didn’t buy them enough fun stuff.”

 Mom also enjoyed compliments on her vast number of plants and flowers in her yard where she spent innumerable hours working. Often, kids would have to “trade a swim for a weed” and she employed many throughout the years to cultivate her gardens. These kids usually finished knowing more “than I ever wanted to know about plants” and Mom loved it. Workers never left without a to go bag of food, or maybe even their own plant. She also dearly loved animals; both her pets and the wildlife found at Sunset Lake. She not only fed a constant stream of people at her kitchen table, but every stray animal at her door. Birdfeeders and squirrel feeders populated her yard and keeping tabs on these became nearly a fulltime job. Mom also loved to be on the go and people frequently comically remarked on how many times her car was seen on the road to town. No distance was too far for a fountain Pepsi, and she always knew the spots for good ice, including when she traveled. And she did enjoy traveling, but she was always ready to return home. And home will never be the same again without her, and no one will ever have my back like my Mom.  

Dad

~ sablewis ~ Leave a comment

The first man to ever love me, the man to whom all future men were compared, my Dad, died January 9, 2026, with his son Shawn and me, his daughter, by his side. Nearly a firecracker baby, Donald E. Burgess was born the only child to Gene and Minola Mayhew Burgess in Aledo, Illinois on July 5, 1940. Upon graduating from high school, Dad attended Western Illinois University to major in Industrial Arts. As fate would have it, he moved into a basement apartment and hollered “hey good lookin’” to my Mom when she walked out of her house next door. Two years later they were married on February 28, 1960. Dad did not finish college as two young sons arrived in quick succession and Mom was attending college full-time. While they lived on mostly love in a small aluminum trailer, Dad worked, of all things, at a laundromat, and the Rock Island Arsenal. In early 1964, he joined the Illinois State Police, and I arrived a few years later. He worked the road and swing shift for many years, then took a desk job for more regular hours in 1972 in Springfield which led all of us to our home in Girard, Illinois.

I could write about the awards he received, the promotions he earned but that does not tell what kind of policeman he was. At some point the ISP adopted the words “Integrity, Service, & Pride,” and Dad embodied all those traits. To our chagrin and many who came to ask, he would never “fix a ticket,” or allow his name to be used to get out of trouble. We quickly found it was better to receive the penalty rather than have Dad find out we’d used a name drop. Even worse, he drove the speed limit. Always. Locals freely passed him and waved, and he calmly returned the polite gesture. Because he was the only state policeman in our community, he was often called in times of trauma to take word to a soon to be grieving family or intervene in a dangerous situation. Dad did so at any time of day or night and he would never discuss with anyone what he had seen or heard. Dad was a policeman 24/7. One time when we were getting gas in a larger city, we left and he pulled the car up the block and went back to the station. Quietly he told Mom to get into the driver’s seat and to drive away quickly if she heard a skirmish. While in the station (no pay at the pump back then), he had a funny feeling about two patrons leering at the worker. All he did was return and stand with his gun and badge discreetly displayed, and the potentially nefarious characters left without incident. We went on our way to visit our grandparents and thought really nothing of the event. It is who he was, always protecting no matter where we were. The 60’s and 70’s were a tumultuous time to be an officer, and often even within the ranks could be challenging. There was a young Black man hired to the ISP and this was an anomaly in 1974; the officer was not treated well by many. Dad asked Mom to fix her best spaghetti, buy a bottle of red wine, and that the first Black family we would meet was coming to our rural home for dinner. Despite my brother Scott telling the officer’s wife she was the same color as our Labrador and even had the same name (Barbara) we had a wonderful evening, and Dad was instrumental in the acceptance of the officer in the mostly white unit. He loved putting on his uniform every morning, his gun was a part of who he was, and he was highly annoyed when civilian clothes were adopted for his position. He did not remove his gun from his side until he retired December 31, 1990, and he walked for the rest of his life, even when using a walker, in the unmistakable gait of a policeman whose hip will never forget the weight of a weapon.

Besides being a policeman, our Dad was a wonderful carpenter and a man who could fix just about anything. Having grown up in his own dad’s business “Burgess Cabinet Shop,” there was not much he could not build or make. He designed and constructed our home near Rock Island and leaving that was hard on my Mom, especially when she saw the lake house Dad had purchased on his own. But throughout the years, Dad took the home through two complete renovations, then finally had enough money to pay to have one done; I know the construction crew certainly appreciated his continual oversight of the work. Though Mom was largely known for her fabulous lake parties, it was Dad who designed the spaces and put the finishing touches on the famous Burgess Rocky Beach with its one-of-a-kind hand built wooden diving board and iconic death-defying metal slide rescued from demolition at West Grade School. Our garage was mostly his workshop which held many wood projects, engines both large and small, and whatever else he had an inkling to craft. As a little girl, I was absolutely in want of a canopy bed. For my birthday one year, he wrapped up the design plans for a bed and had me watch and help while he created the “sleeping quarters for the princess.” Next, I longed for a table to match, so he took me on a sweltering summer day to an auction of old motel furniture and purchased the ugliest 1950’s brown workstation I had ever seen. However, it wasn’t long before he transformed it into a darling white desk with pink knobs and a curved hutch to match. It is still sitting in my daughter’s room today. With my brothers and the neighbor boys who had tragically lost their own dad, they built a treehouse on nearby lake property. I spent the day ferrying hammers, nails, wood, and lemonade back and forth in my red wagon and if it appears idyllic, it was. He spent many very early mornings taking those same boys and my brothers to their sports practices, to their dismay, in his squad car but they never missed because of Dad. Both of my brothers are very fine fix-it men themselves and like Dad, there is not much they cannot do. If Dad had to pay to have something repaired, we all felt the pain as he opened his wallet, and as Mom would say, let the moths out as well as a little cash.

Dad spent the first part of his official retirement working as a crop adjuster just to have some fun, and fun he had. This work often brought him to Normal, Illinois where I lived and attended college. Many times, he would stay with me in my little apartment, we would cook dinner with my friends and have a ball. One particular day I had a poetry presentation after his visit and while it was not awful, my professor said, “I do believe you partied too much with your father last night.” She was right. In 1994, he established with my brother Shawn, Burgess & Son, Plumbing and Heating which they ran together until it closed in 2024. In the early days, Dad and Shawn did everything, from keeping books to running backhoes. And I might add, according to Shawn, there were many things Dad did not know how to do but did them anyway.

For many years, Dad enjoyed working on his little farm he bought near our home. A menagerie of misfit and unwanted animals often found their way to the property, and he forever got calls about a goat, or a llama, or something else that had escaped. He ate free for years at a local restaurant when he took a horse a worker could no longer afford and he allowed her to ride and visit her pet whenever she pleased. My own horse made her way there as my first born arrived and I was short on time, and money. His 2000-pound Belgium horses were his loves and those horses gazed at Dad adoringly. I used to tell him he did not have any trouble telling me no but certainly did with the animals. Not much could get children out of the lake on a swim day, except for the trip to Gramps’s farm to feed the animals. We argued constantly that his truck smelled like horse crap and he said it did not, but if it did, it was the smell of good living.

While Dad was an ISP officer, beards were not allowed and after he retired in 1990, he never shaved again. During the summer of 2005 while we were on vacation together with Mom and Dad, a woman came up to us in a restaurant and said “Excuse me but my kids think you are Santa Claus on vacation, could you go talk to them?” Dad was delighted to do so, and I can still see the joy on his face and on the little boys’ faces when he joined them in their booth. After a bit, my oldest exclaimed to us, “Our Grandpa isn’t Santa!” And I said, “Well, he has made a lot of dreams come true for countless people, including me, so that may very well make him Santa.”

I will miss my personal Santa for the rest of my life, but he joins Mom who died in 2021. Every time I went to visit Dad in his little apartment, I said “Hello Dad! How are you today?” and every single time he replied: “Better now that you are here.” I did not realize how wonderful those few words were until I found I would never hear them again.

The Key To My Heart

~ sablewis ~ Leave a comment

Like most people I know, we fall into that “I never win anything” category. The only 50/50 jackpot I hit was at a high school basketball game for $30 and I contributed $15 because I felt sorry for the kids who were collecting. Our luck changed for one brief instant when my husband won the grand prize of a vacation for two to virtually anywhere. I was in complete shock and briefly saw us jet-setting to an elusive tropical destination, but what flew out of my mouth was: “you know I can’t leave the kids.” And while this story does not center on my inability to do so, which should be covered on a therapist’s couch anyway, it did lead us to our “unusual for us” destination. Throughout most of our travel history as a family of six, we typically rent fully equipped houses with fairly private ocean beach access and on a generous year, one with a pool. The hubs and I are not gamblers in the traditional sense but this practice I assume can be like playing slots; it’s pretty fun and addicting as long as you win which I think we mostly do. We all have a long running list of amenities that describe each place and in our reminiscing we don’t recall particular locales but the physical structure, such as: Sue (the manager with whom we had frequent contact) house where Mom crashed the bicycle on the way to the beach (ouch); favorite house with small but cool pool where Dad forgot the entry code and blamed us; best outdoor shower ever house; circular staircase the boys almost pulled out the ceiling house, subpar house with no beach chairs but semi okay pool; flooded driveway house where dad lost the bottom part of the van, and on and on. To this day our favorite description is the one when we pulled up and our youngest, still in a car seat, saltily quipped “Geesh, Daddy, this place is a dump.” Anyway, the company from whom the hubs won the prize was fine with us converting the winnings for two to winnings for a family, within reason. After much debate, we settled on a picturesque haven in the Florida Keys that also provided family bungalows; I glanced over the diagram of the living quarters and it looked fine, but now I realize I did not give the blueprints the attention they deserved. Nonetheless, it appeared otherworldly with much more gusto than we were accustomed to and way out of our normal price range. Although we never considered ourselves resort people, it seemed quite lovely and could satisfy each member of the family. After booking, the pandemic juggernaut of 2020 arrived like the ghastly beast it was and we lived, as much of the world did, cooped up together in suffocating isolation and apprehension of the future. As time slowly waned and summer neared, it was questionable whether the spot would open and if it did, would we go? Because Florida does what Florida does, and we thought what harm could come from taking refuge in the Keys, we loaded our minivan and set out for the twenty-four-hour sojourn to the archipelago of America. 

Admittedly, when we arrived, we were a bit awestruck as the opulent Gatsby-like mansion came into view and rose from the ground in a seemingly natural rock formation. Diamond shine glistened on the milky exterior which made the immense structure look dewy, and even soft to the touch. Darkened windows that resembled heavily hooded eyes loomed ostensibly across the front of the building, signaling exclusivity to all who entered. Every space surrounding the property was resplendent with plant life, so the grounds resembled a sultry forest. Sequoia-like palm trees guarded their brethren ground coverings with their steely presence. Living towers of greenery scattered across the property in sporadic fashion while bougainvillea so red they dripped and bled ruby splotches beneath them. Garden crotons whose leaves ran wildly with thick yellow veins mingled easily with dainty orchid-like flowers. Top heavy ferns rested their necks indifferently on the ground while iguanas larger than dachshunds hung from trees and roamed freely and wildly, reminiscent of a pre-historic age. The bush opened to a vast aquatic complex where fulgent turquoise water rippled serenely in various connected patterns ranging in size and depth. Rattan chairs filled with milky white cotton pillows scattered themselves in methodical happenstance around the pools and cabanas with linen curtains that mesmerizingly swayed like midnight moon dancers set about to provide respite from the often-unyielding sun. When guests required a bit more nature, the creatively sculpted path led to the expansive beach area also populated with dreamy lounge furnishings clearly made for Daisy Buchanan. A craggy cove with jutted seating capped one end of the beach and at the other was a pier that pushed out into the bay as a steady engineering marvel. My children were absolutely entranced by genteel waitstaff who weaved effortlessly through the area offering an expansive array of decadent pleasures- smoothies rimmed with exotic fruits, crispy cheese sticks begging to be consumed, chocolate pie with mounds of silky frosting calling for attention. I quickly and sternly informed the brood to not look in their eyes- doing so would produce a Medusa-like hypnotic state and they would succumb to any and all wishes of the snack bar, for a cost. Under no circumstances were they to order goods, it was not all-inclusive and they were to return to the bungalow which was the only station where provisions were free to them. (You do know the definition of all inclusive. And no, I am not stingy and no, I do not care that the snacks made the long trek from Illinois and no they did not go stale on the road trip). A curved lazy terracotta drive stamped in ric rac ribbon formation tightly hugged the resort and the Ferraris, Mercedes, BMWs, and Bentleys purred like contented kittens as they casually glided to the entrance. And that’s really when I had to wonder if this stay would be a bit different.

Even though we stopped halfway through the trip so the hubs could rest, (he refuses to let others drive yet, I am the one with issues) six people in one hotel room, a twelve hour car ride complete with restroom breaks at suspicious locations, and a great deal of testosterone in one vehicle, makes for some harried travelers. Upon arrival, we poured out of our durable dapple-gray minivan who’d lost her shine in Southern Illinois as black-tied personnel swarmed us, quickly talking and moving octopus-like arms to disassemble our precariously packed luggage, but stood dumbstruck when faced with the duct-taped car topper. Knocking trash back into the van as in a carnival whack-a-mole game, and gently guiding hands away from the ingeniously secured cargo, I profusely thanked them but politely declined any help as I pointed to the four children- “they’re all strong, they can do it. If you could simply direct us to our place, we can manage on our own.” The urbane concierge briefly floundered in astonishment, but he recovered and led us to a wide cemented path that reminded me of Oz’s twisting yellow brick road, and as he raised his arm in direction, a wretched pitch-black serpent whose thick body stretched the expanse of the walkway took its time slithering into the foliage. I felt the air go out of my lungs and murmured “omen” under my breath. My husband made a not so soft comment about stupid superstitions as he barged past, nearly knocking me off the track. I made a quick move to grab both young boys from taking off after the snake while I woozily whispered to the gang to cautiously move forward, fearing what may await us on the horizon. 

However, as our home for the week came into view, I was immediately transported into Hansel and Gretel’s fairy tale and understood how they must have felt when they came upon the candy cottage. My heart melted at the most adorable pink structure, like the dollhouse I’d always imagined I should live. Lollipops seemed to mimic light poles; a rainbow of gutter gumdrops edged the graham cracker roof like shingles. Twisted green roped licorice outlined the heavy shutters that waited patiently to protect their delicate windows at the slightest hint of a bright sun too bright or a rain too harsh. Shades of light rose dressed the top of the villa which then trailed into the darker stucco that wrapped around the bottom; it was as if the house itself blushed from its own comeliness. As I gazed at our chalet for the week, I thought perhaps I could forget about the anxiety of the last months, and I pushed the foreboding dread away that the serpent arose. With that, we opened the quaint door and the two youngest immediately dropped everything to race into the house to claim proprietary space. I did a quick survey and thought the entry was a bit cramped but before I had time for a complete look about, the urchins returned, both madly speaking above each other in high spirited voices. I could not comprehend their language as my head filled with buzzing, I felt held underwater but I slowly understood “where are the bedrooms? There’s only one.” In slow motion, I turned to my husband, and my mind went to the apocalyptic message of The Heart of Darkness or as more may know Apocalypse Now “the horror, the horror.” But instead, I mouthed, “WTF? What?” And he shrugged his shoulders in the typical “I DON’T KNOW. I’M GETTING BEER.”

With this the color drained from our daughter’s countenance; I feared she would faint helplessly in the archway, but it was so narrow, she was forced to stay upright. Then like Violet Beauregarde after Wonka’s chewing gum, but instead of turning blue, Reagan began to turn frightening shades of crimson. I watched in alarm as our darling girl turned into a fiery creature who roared with fury as she sprang on all fours up the staircase and quickly began to wail “WHERE’S MY ROOOOOOOOM.” I cautiously followed her frenzied trail and peered over a short ledge to in fact see one room with a king size bed, and a miniature sitting area with a loveseat that was surely made for small children, not normal sized adults. Unfortunately, the remaining three brutes laughed balefully at their sister’s expense which made the strained situation even worse. In complete pandemonium, they drubbed “where’s my room?” congruously while their sister screamed “shut up you assholes,” and to no one in general phrases that bounced around like a stuck pinball machine “trapped with you all for four fucking months” and “didn’t want to come on this stupid vacation.” While I was extremely dismayed at this event, I could relate. I too wanted Reagan to have her own room; the lockdown was stifling for all. The first few days, maybe even the first week, seemed a novelty, but as the week turned into months the uncertainty and resentment compounded, and life seemed to hang in motionless suspension. The seniors of 2020, like Reagan, felt particularly distraught and robbed of memories they would never make; they would never look back with nostalgia on their senior prom, walking out of high school for the last day, savoring the last sport played on their team, traditional graduation ceremonies, and on and on. No one seemed exempt from Covid’s bastion and despite our best efforts, the fear and anger that permeated the world stalked our lives; we had our health, but it was hard to not mourn the ebb and flow of our customary days that were now absent. She needed her space. We all did. Nonetheless, none of us would have it and her untoward phrases ricocheted off the walls, from the one room upstairs to the one room downstairs. The young boys, though, remained unfazed, they were too busy spreading the forbidden to travel X-Box materials all over the room while staking claim to the one couch, and the one remaining chair that had no arms but folded into a miniature futon. I felt the harbinger of doom. . . but brightly began “we are in the enchanting Keys, and in a bougie and quite frankly utopian resort, we clearly aren’t supposed to stay inside.” I was drowned out by a clap of thunder and torrential rainstorm.

To advertise that our home away from home slept six adults still puzzles me. I wondered if people who were not related ended up in this seemingly perfect bungalow and then stared questionably at the sleeping quarters. One king size bed for presumably two people so of course the hubs (and I) claimed it, the hide-a-bed sofa not ten feet from our bed to which Reagan threw herself down upon and thrashed haphazardly, still bemoaning her fate. This left one couch in the living area, claimed by the X-Box and the young boys, which somewhat created a double bed that nearly consumed all walking space. This left Reese, #1, who furtively spent the first part of the week simply trying to find a place for his weary body. For years, this was the child we called “The General” because he ruled his siblings with unflinching authority during their formative ages. First Reesielocks stood by the sofa bed in the loft area, but Reagan’s eyes gleamed scarlet and her “get out” was enough to make Reese back away, very very carefully. It was only a few short steps to our berth, to which I replied, “hmm I don’t think so.” Initially, he took the two pieces from the sofa and camped next to us. Briefly, my eyes welled as I saw him as a wee boy curled in that exact same spot when he could not sleep. He tried his best to get comfortable, even as the cushions parted like a fault line under his weight and he folded and creased himself in every way imaginable. Soon Reese was led to believe that downstairs with his younger brothers would provide both camaraderie and respite, but he quickly found himself in the throes of all night gaming which he simply could not muster the strength to power through. For rest, he was provided with the chair that had no sides but did expand; however, only his head and torso fit on it which left his arms and legs hanging from their sockets like some sort of medieval torture apparatus. From sheer exhaustion he would finally drift off dreamily, lulled by the quiet hum of the gaming console, and the soft chatter of his little brothers. On that trial run of togetherness, I was awakened by a scream at 3am that made my veins run cold and rocket out of bed. I was met with irrational mania, howling laughter, and snippets of “his nose on my butt,” and “his nose touched my butt,” and “GD ASS in my face. YOU F’ING LITTLE SHITS.”  Reese seethed. His hair stood on end, his eyes hinged with fury, and he scrubbed his face with the closest thing he could find, a moldy dishrag. All the while he haphazardly pursued his much more agile brothers as they shrieked with frenetic delight at their victorious and adroit scheme. It felt like Sunday evening’s Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom that featured gorillas who are generally peaceful but run around thumping their chests after a wrestling match gone awry. Eventually, and because they could not contain their pride, I was able to discern the event was all a part of the covert operation concocted by either #3 or #4, I was not sure which concocted the clever subterfuge. Regardless, the plan was set in motion and perfectly executed: they sat and discreetly gamed until Reese dozed heavily. The unfolded low to the ground furniture allowed for creative positioning so one brother pulled down his boxers and balanced precariously over the sleeping giant’s face. The other made a sudden loud noise so that Reese’s eyes flew open while he simultaneously bolted upright. Consequently, let’s just say he was met with a very unpleasant situation, and I had to turn my back to laugh at their meticulous ingenuity. For three long nights Reese stumbled around the house, seeking a reposeful night but was only met with cushions that did not fit his stature and brothers who lured him back with promises of goodwill but had no intention whatsoever of fulfilling that deal. As he crept down to the beach like Quasimodo himself, where he could finally recline in somewhat peace, it dawned on me that perhaps I could request a rollaway bed. After two clicks on the website, Reagan came to the seaside and reported a bed had been delivered, but it was in the diminutive kitchen. We did manage to maneuver it to the living room which made for an obstacle course as even less floor space remained, yet, Reese finally experienced some tranquility (and we threatened the younger two like we really meant it).  

The best arrangements were indeed the beach and the pool, and we were in the closest proximity to both that we had ever been. The resort teemed with more guests than our previous adventures and I noticed again that the way we operated together was not the norm in this venue. In our typical beach escapades, we slopped to our oceanside area with paraphernalia that rivaled Panama Jack’s store including a cooler that took two people to carry. Bags of snacks usually end up with more sand than chips in them and at the end of the day we look like a molting pack of wild birds with errant patches of sunburn exploding catastrophically over our bodies. In short, we pack like we do not intend to return, nor do we return to base in the near future. Patrons at Playa Largo seemed to need nothing by their chairs, including sunscreen as they languidly lounged with already tanned skin glistening under a fine mist of banana coconut oil. They did not seem affected by the swimmer’s itch, which left half of our family speckled with a poxy affliction. Hands encrusted in gold cupped various sundry drinks served in Cocktail style by a Tom Cruise look-alike, and desecrated charcuterie boards lay mournfully in waste. And it was hot, so hot that the warm bath-like waters of the gulf often proved unrefreshing, and inwardly I pined for the burst of frigidity we found in the oceanside (We did cross the island for one trip to the Atlantic but that is beside the point). I supposed we were not “playas,” at Playa Largo after all, which, of all things, drew us closer as a familial unit. This was the most evident in two people who we came to call “Honey Boo-boo.”

During the week, we tended to scatter a bit throughout the lodgings, each of us seeking refuge in silent anonymity, and truthfully the togetherness was taxing at times for all involved. One night at dinner, I mentioned to the family that while lying in the sun, I witnessed quite a spectacle from a couple near me, then bit by bit every member revealed a similar encounter. We began to take note of their arrival, just because it was so startling, and it pulled us together in a way that normalized our own nutty behaviors. It was apparent that the twosome was on their honeymoon, and while we did not hear their names, we did hear the woman coo in syrupy falsetto “Boo-boo” which gave way to our “Honey Boo-Boo” in reference to the “horror story posing as reality television” starring the awfully behaved child and her mother. Our own Honey Boo-boo was a glimpse into a mock live reality piece. Honey’s diaphanous clothing always revealed next to nothing underneath, and the surgical manipulations were as obvious as were the ones that were not. Because her stilettos sunk with every step deep into the sand, she continuously groped Boo-boo, and he made a show half holding half- me Tarzan – you Jane dragging her to various spots for photos. Boo-boo thought himself carefully sculpted but was actually quite mushy, like an overly ripe banana. Every action they performed was filmed and photographed for posterity, and at one point I wondered if Covid had robbed them of their nuptial celebration which caused this tasteless show. However, I came to know we witnessed in real time the dawn of a social media monster- the influencer. Tawdry poses, bacchanal antics, and garish gestures unfolded in premeditated rhythms, but it was much more melodramatic than our own midwestern lives and we simply could not tear ourselves away from their antics; we kept watching. As the week progressed, more people arrived beachside at the same time as Honey Boo-boo which led us to believe that other patrons were as repulsed and fascinated by these mores as were we. However, Honey Boo-boo did make their appearance nightly for the popular “Eventide;” an event that brought the entire community together at Playa Largo. There are definitive scientific explanations as to why the sunsets in the Keys are exceptionally vivid; I’ve read them, and I understand them, but these cannot prepare you for the truly majestic and divine occurrence of the daily disappearing star. Eventide celebrated this celestial phenomenon, and everyone present held a collective breath as the sun made her slow burning descent into the Florida Bay and became one with the water while the sky exploded in too many colors to name. As reggae sounds drifted into the air from the trio of musicians, a scantily clad young man in a makeshift loin cloth paddled a kayak while another person held a fire breathing tiki torch. Perhaps fifty yards out in the saltwater was a firepit and the goal was to light the fire just as the sun vanished, signifying a type of pagan ritual where the fire represents the vanishing sun’s continued existence, therefore life’s continued existence. Throughout the week, there were guest lighters and though in reality it was just a person paddling out to light a fire, and the sun would set just like it had every day, it really did take on an ethereal and sacred aura. Except for when Honey Boo-boo came to the party. To the naked eye, it may have looked like happenstance as to who kayaked out for the occasion, but it was entirely apparent that anyone could, for the right price. I am not sure how much it was, but we felt like we should have been paid to watch Honey Boo-boo. As they strutted to the shore all the while waving to the crowd (no one returned the favor), groping one another, flipping hair, and gruesomely smiling like Pennywise, I looked at my family and it felt like we had a shared revelation, that we kinetically meshed and silently agreed this was not something to admire. Watching them was hinged with schadenfreude as their inability to set the kindling ablaze was more pleasant than I could imagine. As they clumsily struggled with the activity, it was like the gods themselves had enough of the show, after all, we all know what happened when Icarus flew too close to the sun. Then #3 child put it into words: “At least we’re not like that, Mom” and I thought there we have it. They do have standards after all.

 Perhaps the only downside to the actual resort aside from Honey Boo-boo was the divided highway that ran in front north and south -south to continue to the most southern tip of America and north to take us straight back to Illinois. Cars raced on this relatively tiny road at breakneck speeds and if I am sticking to Tom Cruise movies think Days of Thunder speed. Would be vacationers may lounge as if time does not exist on the beach but not while traveling on this route. I don’t know if I have ever seen more middle fingers in my life as I did trying to join traffic in either direction. It was very disheartening. Apparently waiting patiently for your turn would never happen so to enter the highway the driver just had to channel those inner Mario skills, gun it, and hope for the best. I am ashamed to admit that my husband and I were often too tipsy to drive on our evening dinner excursions from La Playa so that left the next in line to drive, a very young twenty-year-old Reese. As we all walked to our van, beads of sweat sprung up on Reese and began their tortuous slide down his worried face as he begrudgingly marched to the impending rite of passage that would send fear through the hearts even the bravest: trying to cross a busy boulevard with five people telling you how to do it, and two of them drunk. Our travels across the parkway took a great deal out of us and looking back, I think if we survived trying to cross that road, we could survive anything, including all the Keys had offered up. The entire scenario was straight out of the immensely popular 80’s Atari video game Frogger. Happy little hopping sounds filled my mind until suddenly- that deadening squashing splat. Our van inched haltingly, with Reese pumping the brakes exponentially which caused the seatbelts to simultaneously lock, vehicles swerved, blared their awful horns, amidst a cacophony of “fucking GO Reese, what are you 80? Floor it. Geezus.” From the farthest back seat, all I saw was my first miracle in his little red coupe scooting around the patio, his tiny feet whirring for all their might, his plump hands gripping the steering wheel, and tears burst forth from my eyes and I tried to holler above the other trilling passengers “leave him alone you animals! Just do the best you can Angel!” Finally, as if divine intervention occurred again, the actual hand of god seemed to swoop down and we were delivered onto the road. A hush descended upon the vehicle, and we cruised in silence for a short time. In the spirit of camaraderie, I asked the others to thank Reese for safely delivering us onto Hell’s expressway but he did not get very much in return.

I, however, got a lot in return that week at Playa Largo, but we were all ready for the comfort and spaciousness of our home. We just had the twenty-four-hour return car trip standing in our way, and a secret $500 bar bill that the hubs reticently hemmed and hawed around about then claimed the children drove it up but we all knew he folded like a card table in the presence of someone to wait on him, Medusa or not. Some of our friends have long chastised us for not flying to our destinations, for not getting multiple hotel rooms for a one-night stay, for not doing more than just lying on the beach for a week. My immediate reaction is cost, a big family is very expensive, but my truest reaction is that despite the trials of our standard retreats, I absolutely cling to those times with our family. Even cramped in that far back seat to where I am now relegated, I get several hours of just being in the presence of these humans we created, and I drink it all in. One of the babes will rest a head on my shoulder, throw a heavy leg over mine, drape an arm across my lap, or nestle against me, and I am filled with immeasurable joy because for these moments they are all mine again. They don’t belong to a sport, or to a friend, or to a job, or to adulthood; they are all mine, just as they once were as tiny beings. My husband has long said I don’t share well and I guess that is something I would reveal to the phantom therapist that I am never seeing. Because to myself, I begrudgingly admit he is right; I admit that sharing my children with the unkind world was very hard for me and for one week I don’t have to. And I will ride in a car across the country, I will forgo a trip for two, I will stay in one room in a hotel, or a too small bungalow, just to have that feeling again. 

We arrived home on the hub’s birthday and before I wearily set out for the local market to pick up something for dinner, I asked the family for menu suggestions. Each child murmured something about prior engagements as one by one they backed away slowly in alarmed panic and flew out the door. The hubs then lamented “I can’t believe they left, and even on my birthday.”  And that, more than anything that week, left me bemused, but I replied, “It’s okay Boo-boo, Honey’s here.”

Pink cottage with white porch surrounded by tropical greenery and ocean view

Just Gifting

~ sablewis ~ 5 Comments

When I taught high school English, during the holiday season we always read the heavily anthologized “The Gift of the Maji” by O’Henry. Set during the Christmas season in 1905, an impoverished married couple, Della and Jim, seek to give one another the most perfect monetary gift. In my mind, every person in public school has encountered this tale but the quick synopsis is that Della sells her long luxurious hair to buy her husband a gold chain for his revered heirloom pocket watch; Jim sells his treasured watch to buy his wife tortoise shell combs for her heavy hair. Obviously, come the holiday morning, both are astonished to find their gifts are useless to one another but O’Henry writes “Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise.” I always paused for dramatic effect at this line, and to this day it still gives me goosebumps. But is it true? When we completed this as a class, and I stood in the front of the room bated with expectations of astute insight into the moral of the story, inevitably one student would expound with immeasurable wisdom “Well they are both stupid, why didn’t they just tell each other what they were getting?” Comments as such always deflated my tender teacher’s heart, after all, I was trying to instill compassion, empathy, and the true meaning of giving. However, I came to realize that though not eloquent, perhaps there was something to be said in that response. Maybe what the student meant and could not articulate is – gift giving is hard. Like an innate ability to run faster, or to do math problems quicker, or to play piano by ear, gifting comes easily for some, and not so easily for others. And maybe once again my student was right in that “why didn’t they just tell each other?” But because we all know the hard and fast rules, it is gauche to speak freely about our needs, and specifically, wants. We are supposed to remain mute and the gifter is to intrinsically, telepathically know exactly for what we yearn, and this false premise is wrapped neatly with ribbon in every medium, from advertisements to cinematic productions. “The Gift of the Maji,” I think, remained elusive to many of my high school students who did not see the gifts as sacrifice, maybe could not yet see that Della and Jim surrendered a beloved possession for the greater good of someone they love. Nevertheless, all those years ago upon my first reading, I got it, I connected with it and every subsequent reading left me suffering yet alive with hope for humanity. To cut her hair! To sell his watch! Though sad over the unforeseen outcome, how could Della and Jim not fall more in love with one another? Granted, I have never had to sell my hair but ultimately, I do not find gifting stressful. I am not being cavalier when I say I am one of those people who can find a winning, meaningful gift, most of the time. Perhaps due to an equal mix of heredity and environment, I grew up following my parents’ lead in making things for loved ones, whether at Mom’s sewing machine, the kitchen table, or even Dad’s woodshop. This carried on into my adult life and when I did shop for those on my list, I seemed to be drawn by invisible forces to a most satisfying purchase. In my life I’ve learned that this is an anomaly.

In the yuletide season of 1984, as a junior in high school, I had my first real boyfriend. There were several couples that populated our small circle and the fervor of the festive season gripped one and all; the underlying electric current of competition was strong. What girl would receive the most coveted offering from said boyfriend? What girl would walk into the holiday basketball tournament and make all others seethe with jealousy and feign admiration? Not only would she be wearing new Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and an angora sweater but maybe, just maybe, the sacred sweetheart ring. Alas, this was not me. Not only did I not get the ring, but I also didn’t get the outfit. While Mom had no gifting qualms for my pre-adolescent self, my teen years appeared to suggest a problem. Early December I shopped with Mom at the mall and took her to The Limited and pointed to very specific clothes that made me pale with longing. Come Christmas, as I carefully unwrapped the packages already picturing myself walking into the basketball gym in an ensemble fit for the cover of Seventeen, would be something I had never even seen before, often too big or too small, too scratchy, too ugly, and maybe even an Alfred Dunner from Sears. Crestfallen, of course I gave thanks, but in a weak voice bemoaned “this is not what I showed you Mom.” And her casual rushed reply: “Oh really, you know they always move those god damn clothing racks around. You know I hate going into that store. Music is too loud, and everything is ugly, snotty salesgirls.” Strike one. I sighed heavily, hoping I could muster the courage to ask later for the tags, or the receipt (usually lost) so that I could not only exchange the clothes but get Mom took take me to the store again – both feats were a difficult task. Her beleaguered response was always “What’s wrong with you? It’s nice. Just wear it.” Gas was up to .89 a gallon and one could just not run to a store thirty miles away for something so trivial, and in my parents’ eyes as free as I was in the 80’s, I was far too young to navigate the route to the mall alone, even though of course I knew that route by heart and hundreds upon hundreds of other routes and miles I traveled pre-Draconian tracking devices, and made it home just fine.  

Still, I still held out hope for the boyfriend’s gift. In anticipation, I prepped carefully for the holiday; I dressed judiciously in my pinstripe wool trousers that irritated my skin and made my waist break out in an angry rash, counterfeit cashmere sweater, short black pumps, black nylon knee highs that didn’t soak up sweat so my blistered feet constantly went from a state of freezing to frozen. My eyes were not short of shocking blue shadow and eyeliner which I anticipated would cascade down my jubilant face, but it would be worth it. I spared no expense on the slathering of Love’s Baby Soft and a full shower of Aqua-Net cemented on my hair. When the boyfriend, late as usual, arrived for the celebration, I tried not to let his attire of a disheveled summer basketball camp shirt, faded Lees, and high top dirty whitish tennis shoes discourage me from the impending exchange. With my hard-earned babysitting money (and at $1 an hour for the most monstrous children) I purchased a state-of-the-art boom box that took no less than eight D batteries (gifted separately from Mom as I ran out of money). It was an extravagant gift but meaningful, purposeful and useful. He had no blaster, and no FM radio in his vehicle, the former family Chevy sedan. In my mind, I could see us cruising to no destination with the windows down, his arm draped casually around my shoulder while our favorite artists crooned love song after love song. Gone would be the days of farm reports and sporadic static from the only AM rock station. Also for him was a plush Hagar the Horrible doll which was a beloved comic strip of ours as already I could see the personas playing out in our young relationship. Hagar represented the blustering figure of typical toxic masculinity while we all knew his wife Helga really ran the show quietly, demurely, and smartly behind the scenes. Honestly, both gifts were flawless: one of dire need and one of our symbolic futures playing out seamlessly.  

He handed me the first present, unwrapped, but it was an artful heart-shaped candy box which I immediately recognized visually and olfactorily as straight from the local apothecary; Decks Drug Store. The box smelled like Decks looked- lemon polished wood, syrups of all flavors for any kind of soda that mingled amicably with the tester of the heavily sought after and scandalously labeled White Shoulders cologne. In the store, rows upon dizzying rows of tightly wrapped boxes of confections turned out year after year were displayed in venerated outbursts of seasonal décor beckoning the lackluster gift giver, like a siren’s song to a sailor of yore. The box I received was of distressed red, as if one side fell asleep in the hot afternoon sun while stiff plastic variegated pink poinsettias erupted voraciously from the middle, trying with all their might to spring free from the suffocating yards of cellophane. Enclosed inside, of course, was chocolate but not just any chocolate; enclosed was a confined stale assortment, each filled with something dreadful and secretive. I did not even like Twinkies or Ding Dongs, let alone synthetic bonbons filled with oozing and gushing varieties of deceptively labeled fruits- dishonest coconut, cherry, strawberry and the like wept from each piece like an open wound, and at that time I felt, like my wounded soul. For many years of courtship, come any holiday, a box of chocolates (sometimes heart shaped sometimes rectangle) filled with globs of false promises made its way to my hands; I professed undying thanks, and the candy went to my less picky brother. Mind you, I ate with this boyfriend all the time, so it remained mysterious to me that he never once saw me eat an unpredictable piece of confection but thought it a sure gift for me. Nevertheless, the next present he placed in my trembling hands I thought would be the crowning glory of gifts, the one that would make me shine in front of the other girls. I imagined the delicate gold ring, encircling my finger with years of blissful joy beckoning from it. Laying in the box, however, was a necklace. From a dull too long brass chain, hung a small heart locket, etched with the tiniest lines and an even tinier diamond chip that I had to squint to make sparkle. At this point the boyfriend chattered incessantly on how I could go to the store and get his picture in the 2×2 millimeter locket, and for many years he would occasionally ask “did you get a picture in that locket yet?” For the safety of the relationship, I went to K’s Merchandise Mart and inquired as to doing so. I can still see the saleswoman look regretfully at me, in the sisterhood of misbegotten gifts given by relatively sincere boyfriends and say, “getting the picture would cost more than the necklace and you couldn’t even make out his face.” I did not shine at the basketball tournament, my necklace paled in comparison to the siege of trumpeted rings, cubic zirconia earrings that shone effervescently under fluorescent lighting, and designer jeans galore. But I wore my necklace authentically for years to come, even when it took on a brackish hue, and continued to swear to the boyfriend I was looking into getting his photo in the locket.

Eight years later, I married that boyfriend and while I no longer wore the heart locket, it did remain safely tucked away in my jewelry box, next to the slightly bigger heart necklace with slightly bigger diamond chips I received as a wedding gift. I glanced at both every so often and hoped it would serve only as a reminder when my wants were misunderstood. Alas, I was so very wrong. When I recall these times, I often think of the curmudgeonly old minister we were forced to meet with in order to wed. For whatever unreasonable, petty, patriarchal reason, we were required to have his blessing to proceed with our lifelong plans. After a series of probing questions of what I can only assume are akin to being interrogated for a crime we did not commit, this killjoy declared our differences too great and suggested we go our separate ways. Though upsetting, he was only a fleeting irksome blip in our history, and his false prophecy now makes me snort smugly. I cannot recall what specifically made him declare us unfit for marriage, but I do remember discussing holidays so perhaps it was our differences in celebratory practices that caused him to deliver such abysmal advice. Nonetheless, a soothsayer he was not, thus we began our life together. The Christmas after our first child was born in October (seven years into the marriage), we were much like Della and Jim; monetarily poor but awash with even more devotion. Mostly because my husband insisted, we decided on a small exchange within budgetary reason. I swore I was fine with the baby as our gift such was my bliss in our long awaited child. However, he eloquently reasoned we should give one another some token of our continued steadfast commitment to commemorate this auspicious holiday. During sunrise as we basked in the glow of our family of three and gazed at our perfect child, my husband handed me his gift. I gently teased him about the haphazard wrapping and copious amounts of tape, and as I finally got through to the gift, I discovered: bathroom scales. The wish of every postpartum mother. To his credit, he immediately read my face and quickly clarified “You always comment as to whether the baby has lost or gained weight, so I thought. . . “

“But these are not baby scales.”

“Well, you see, you get on the scales and weigh yourself, then you hold the baby and weigh, then. . .you could keep a calculator beside it.”

“I understand how it fucking works.”

Some years later, after a range of gifts that hit the mark to those that continued to perhaps be for someone else, I discovered bracelets that the wearer could adorn with an absolute infinite number of beads- I mean millions of charms in dizzying assemblages of colors, combinations, and themes. You name it, the manufacturer has a bead for it. Finally, eighteen years and four kids into the union, I frankly said to the hubs, “buy me these until I tell you to stop. I mean it, every holiday, one or two beads. Please. For real.” We had a solemn discussion on imposter bead syndrome; in a hushed but stern voice I warned him not to be bamboozled by faux pax jewelry (he didn’t listen, that one went to Goodwill and was not replaced). As expected, it was a slow start. For one, he told me later he didn’t think I really meant it when I said to get charms for every holiday, and number two, due to the vast amount of bead designs, try as he might, he could not keep track of what I had and what I didn’t have, except for hearts. He never grew tired of hearts. My husband frequently relayed the trite standby assertion “it’s the thought that counts;” and I always retorted “not if there is no thought.” These difficult conversations always left us at a stalemate which only passed when one of us left the room (usually me). Moreover, again, we are not supposed to state directly what we want, after all, there is “no joy in opening exactly for that which you asked.” I found this statement to be very wrong in a myriad of ways. Even so, I remained faithful to my plan, and he remained aloof and resistant to this direct approach of giving.

Early one spring I was hanging new curtains in our living room. As I stood on a ladder high above the china cabinet, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a small, delicate pink bow barely perceptible as it sprouted like a fledgling flower under copious amounts of dust. My heart, like the Grinch, grew two sizes at once as I realized the shape under the bow was unmistakably a bracelet box. Finally! With Mother’s Day on the horizon, I would feign surprise over this most delightful endowment, and I would finally be on track for a lifetime of trinkets and bangles. However, holidays came and went with devastating consequences and defeat; each occasion that year left my wrist unadorned and me longing for the coveted container still on top of the cabinet. Mother’s Day was the first to arrive and as I awoke to sunlight spilling into the room at 5am, I heard my husband pull from the driveway. Besides being adept at gift giving, I am also blessed with unbelievable witch like intuition for I knew immediately he (thought) he had no gift. An hour and a half later, he arrived home. To allow him to continue his charade, I watched him clandestinely from the window as he unloaded his car of flowers and balloons, (and a case of his favorite beer) all of which bore the unmistakable trademark of Walmart Super Center. At least he was there when it opened.

My June birthday was the next to arrive and since our birthdays are exactly one year and one day apart, it has always been a celebratory favorite of ours, though not without its hardships. This particular year, I planned the most delightful outing which consisted of dinner at the authentic Hibachi grill and an evening under the stars at the outdoor muni, all of which would be the first for our four children. During dinner though, the hubs got into the Sake and Sapporo beer which combined with a full course meal made for a difficult evening of concentrating on Seussical. But no matter how hard he stared into the side of my face and flagrantly tapped his phantom wristwatch when he caught my eye, I refused to leave the show, even when the youngest fell asleep on my arm and the interest from the other three waned. It was the most marvelous night and as we drove through the purplish midnight hue, I dreamed of the bracelet to come. Alas, when we arrived home the hubs fell quickly and steadfastly asleep in the recliner while I bustled the children to bed. In a lackluster presentation at breakfast the next day, I received a Precious Moments figurine of mother and child- a near replica of the one I had received a few years ago. If the hubs noticed the identical twins standing side by side on my dresser he never let on, though I frequently lined them up in his direct line of first sight.

The next holiday was our anniversary, the most prized of all days, and surely, surely said bracelet would be mine. I must admit though, I was becoming a little weary. All the anticipation and subsequent letdown was starting to take a toll on my normally gregarious self, but I was not one to give up hope even on the darkest days. Nonetheless, when the doorbell rang and I accepted the outrageously expensive Pro-Flower delivery, guaranteed to arrive within 24 of calling, and while Mom “tsk-tsked” and deadheaded nearly every bud from the limpid bouquet, I still clung to my faith like a true believer. But when I sneaked the chair to the cabinet, peered over the edge and I saw the bracelet box covered in more debris than before, it was just too much. Something in me snapped and I knew, I just knew I had to plan. I had to get to the bottom of this peculiar guest sitting guardedly atop my cabinet.

That plan came at Christmas, almost an entire year after the discovery. When the children were finally nestled snug in the beds, and the hubs in his chair, I crept to the cabinet in my most superior cat-like movements and prepared for a covert heist. As I tenderly lifted the still waiting, still waiting bracelet box, dust flew and clogged my nose sending me into a dizzying spiral of sneezing. I dropped to the floor just in case a house inhabitant should investigate but the only one who came was the Sunny the dog. He licked my head and set about impassively and without disapproval watching me crawl to the stockings hung by the chimney with care. Kindly, I inched the box into my (sigh) barren stocking and glanced at the other stockings laden with goodies. Then I sneaked stealthily back to bed, and Sunny lay down, coolly guarding my secret forever. I felt like a child; I was so anxious I could barely sleep.

Christmas morning dawned with a promise of new beginnings, of cherished hope, and requited dreams. The bathroom scales debacle was a distant nightmare. As the children finished their stockings and patiently awaited the mecca of gift distributions, I paused and exclaimed “Oh wait! Mommy has something in her stocking!” The children cried with glee, “Mommy has something! Santa finally remembered Mommy!” Their eyes glowed vibrantly with anticipation and pure innocence that can only radiate from children drunk with holiday euphoria. I slowly drew the dust free present from my stocking and with flair opened the long-anticipated treasure. Jumping up and down with exaggerated enthusiasm I exclaimed “it’s a bracelet! It’s a bracelet!” The kids encircled me like I was the fire in the center of a circle pagan ritual and chanted “yeah Mommy! Yeah Mommy!” Yet, when I stole a glance at my husband, his stoney face was devoid of joy so while the babes set about making piles of presents, we stole into the kitchen and I quickly shut the swinging butler’s door to muffle our voices. Still jubilant, I cried “Don’t you love my bracelet?” while I jingled and jangled away.  Then, he moved dangerously close to my personal space and intensely whispered:

“You shouldn’t make such a big deal about buying your own gift and stuffing your own stocking.”

I was momentarily speechless. Absolutely speechless. And I fumed hotly with indignation. I felt like I was in my own personal Circle of Hell; the Ferryman kept chauffeuring me to a spot that was saturated with rotting fruit and stale chocolate which washed over me in mass. Statues of decapitated mother and child littered the ground, thousands of headless stuffed animals both store bought and won at carnivals dangled from the rafters. I could not, I could not have this future anymore! And then I stepped dangerously close to his personal space and I loudly retorted:

“That gd bracelet has been sitting on top of the cabinet in the dining room for nearly a year. At least a year! Maybe more- I discovered it when I changed the drapes. Is it for me or not?”

And with that final delivery, that final blow, I saw in his face slight recognition that he visibly yet sheepishly tried to hide. Quickly he turned and dimly replied, “Oh well, yeah, it was.”  Then he instantly left the room under the pretense of “getting back to the kids for Christmas.” 

After this incident, things became easier between us as it was certain I was and would be the all-time victor- like a gladiator who championed the Coliseum, the year of the bracelet would live forever in our house. Even so, some holidays since the bracelet incident have been easy, but some have still been hard. One year, the hubs was traveling to Vegas for a computer industry conference over our anniversary, and when he returned home he handed me a box that could obviously contain nothing more than a coffee mug. I sighed resolutely and muttered “Oh another ‘I heart cybersecurity’ cup, or maybe even ‘cybersecurity rocks.’” The hubs stomped his foot and told me to open the damn box. However, inside was not just any coffee cup but a signature Micheal Jackson Cirque du Soleil mug, complete with a (not heart) bead tucked sweetly within. But, just last summer, I overheard the hubs say something about his birthday to our oldest (at age 25 a few years from that bathroom scale Christmas), and when said oldest child came into the kitchen, I asked “What did Dad say about his birthday?”

“Dad said he doesn’t want another fucking shirt for his gift.”

“Well march right back downstairs and tell him he’s getting a GD shirt and that is that.”

Then we laughed.

I still adore “The Gift of the Maji,” and always wonder how Della and Jim lived out the rest of their lives. I always hoped Della was able to grow out her hair and use the combs, and that if Jim didn’t get his heirloom watch back, maybe he got one that he could begin with anew. At heart, I am a dreamer, a romantic through and through. But moreover, in all honesty, I hope Della and Jim were able to joke about the holiday when they tried so hard to please one another and reflect with nostalgic fondness over that confusing and trying time in their young life. It may not seem like it, but gifting is never about greediness; it is about being seen, feeling loved and feeling understood and this doesn’t happen quickly; it takes time and patience and then even more time and patience. However, I am sure if their life was anything like ours, their lives only got richer, and not because of the gifts and not because of material goods, but because of what they learned along the way. “Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise.” Indeed O’Henry, indeed.