Hearts
and Crafts
Lazy?
Lacking creativity?
Even the lame can make presents by hand--and they might
just save your marriage.
BY
NIGEL JAQUISS
Last Christmas, my wife put her foot down. Not on me, fortunately,
but rather to rein in unchecked and uninspired gift giving.
Her request: that members of our extended family make presents
for one another. The proposal grew out of a desire to shelter
our children from the orgy of consumption that marks the
holiday--and to shield herself from the sting of my incompetence.
Her idea held some appeal. Regrettably, I'm lazy and
thoughtless and possess questionable taste--shopping is
not my forte. I really hit bottom a few years ago. As
my in-laws-to-be watched in horrified silence, my better
half opened a bathrobe (scandalous--we weren't married
yet), a collapsible snow shovel and a fleece-covered hot-water
bottle--all from me.
After we got married, the story remained the same. Despite
vows to reform, I found myself every Christmas Eve at
Banana Republic or Barnes & Noble desperately flashing
my Visa card. Watching my wife's face as she unwrapped
yet another white turtleneck or Audubon field guide, I
realized that our holiday celebrations lacked soul. But
it's easier to look sheepish than to change your ways.
So last year when my wife suggested homemade gifts, my
first thought was, "Great idea, but it'll be too much
work." I didn't even mention the difficulty of returning
homemade merchandise. As usual, I was outvoted, one to
one. It would only be necessary to make presents for one
or two people, rather than all 14 of us. I drew the name
of my 3-year-old daughter. She shouldn't be too hard to
please, I figured. But what could I give her? A fort made
of Popsicle sticks? Hand-painted coffee mug? Miniature
totem pole?
After weeks of procrastination, I finally hatched an
idea. It dawned on me that the only gifts that had had
any resonance over the years were the hand-drawn birthday
cards I made for my wife. Why not, as the advertising
types say, extend the brand?
I bought a small spiral-bound book of plain, heavy paper.
Borrowing my daughter's colored pencils, I drew eight
pages of cartoons. The pictures told her life story. There
was the hospital where she was born, the beach where she
played as a baby and her first pair of rubber boots. In
the book's latter stages, a towering fir, the Westmoreland
Park duck pond and Mount Hood portrayed our move to Oregon.
She loved the book and made me read it to her over and
over. I gave my daughter other presents last Christmas,
but I can't remember any of them.
I do remember my daughter's excitement about the gift
she made. She painted a picture in wispy clouds of
primary colors. With her mother's help, she cut out and
glued the painting into a picture frame and gave it to
an older cousin. When we exchanged presents, all she wanted
to do was watch him open her creation.
So this Christmas, while my wife fiendishly knits our
melon-headed son a hat, I'll be sharpening the colored
pencils and adding a couple more chapters to my daughter's
book. I'm also working on a secret project for my wife.
Undoubtedly, it won't be as elaborate as the bookmark
she crafted for me last year, but it won't be a snow shovel,
either.
