Chowhound is a weekly column about what’s trending in Detroit food culture. Tips: [email protected].
Any gift given has some thought behind it. Choosing one for someone is part expression of how we see ourselves in the relationship. That’s the trick when it comes to presents: finding the right ones to communicate connection. No wonder we get so wrapped up in them come Christmas.
The Aunt Mary I’ve written bits and pieces about these past four weeks is soon to celebrate her 101st birthday. For nearly 62 of those years, she’s been there for me: a mother figure for sure who’s more than filled-in, seeing me through and teaching a thing or two while demonstrating how she saw her role in my life. Taking countless occasions to let me know where things stood in my upbringing, she never gave me a gift that wasn’t practical by intent. There were stacks of books she and Uncle Harry bought me: encyclopedias, dictionaries, world history, geography, and such. Some stayed at their house, where I often did. Then they bought me a desk for my room at Aunt Helen’s house, where I’d sit and sift through a world of words and pictures. After that came a tool box — Craftsman, from Sears — which they steadily filled with things they said I’d need when the time came for a young man to make some of his own repairs and adjustments in life. By the time I left for college, Aunt Mary — now widowed and working in housekeeping at the local country club — had added an alarm clock radio and a late ’70s model panini press to further furnish me with what I’d need to get out of bed and stay fed at Ferris State. Along every step and misstep of my way through boyhood and beyond, her gifts were intended to get and keep me going in the right direction. For the record, most — the grilled cheese sandwich maker, certainly — were put to good use. As to that alarm clock, not so much.
Above and beyond all else, though, was that big box which came to me on Christmas Eve when I was ten. The second it arrived tagged with my name, I started imagining something special inside. Crazy curious to glean some weight-and-rattle clues to its contents, I instantly offered to carry it off into the corner by the tree.
“Uncle Harry can set it down there,” Aunt Mary chuckled at my just-trying-to-be-helpful ruse. From that moment and for the two maddening hours that ensued, it was all I could do to maintain some kid-at-Christmas composure as wild what-ifs about my gift drove me to the brink of impatient, present-opening insanity. During dinner, I stared at the box. While personally considering a German Shepard pup as the most perfectly practical gift of companionship anyone could have presented me then, a lack of air holes punched in the packaging seemed to preclude that possibility. Leaving my chair after dessert, I took the long way out from around the table, creating a chance to brush the box with my leg and gauge its resistance. Most of the best things I could think of were made with hard metal and plastic parts: 1,000-piece erector sets, catcher’s equipment, bikes in need of assembly, and such. When the box moved easily and soundlessly over after I applied the slightest and slyest pressure against it, it left me only more confused. There was no way it weighed or was noisy enough to be any of those things. My mind boggled.
Finally getting the go-ahead to play Santa and pass out presents, I felt fairly frantic.
“Here you go, Grandma,” I dispensed with everyone else’s particulars post-haste. “And this one’s for you, cousin. And you. And you.”
Then it was me time. I ran to my pile of presents, ripping open all the others — none of which I now remember — while my mother stood by, ever-ready to remind me to say thank you. At last, only the big box remained. I tore in. Stopping the second I saw what lay inside, I couldn’t hide my utter disappointment. I dropped next to the box — its contents untouched — and cried.
It was a big, red, white, and blue crocheted blanket.
In hindsight, I see how my Aunt Mary’s feelings might well have been sorely hurt by my reaction. If they were, she didn’t show it. Instead, she walked calmly over, lifted me to my feet, held me close, and explained things.
“Listen, Bobby. Maybe you were expecting something different. Maybe a toy would have made you happier for a week or month until it breaks or you get tired of it. But this you’ll have for a long time. May it keep you warm, your children, and maybe even their children one day.”
Now, if you’ll allow me a word and one wish:
To my Aunt Mary — happy 101st birthday. As you know, your words proved prophetic. That blanket’s traveled with me all this time. When I packed it up to take it Out West, I wondered if I’d need it in the Arizona desert. But true to its construct, it was a comfort wherever and whenever I felt out in the cold over the course of more than four decades. And you were right: my two children have reveled in its warmth as well over those years, as do two grandsons of mine these days, who’ve fallen asleep tucked under it as I’ve sat babysitting them moved and utterly amazed by a loving gift that’s continued to give me and mine so much.
Just know, you taught me thoughtful gift-giving, among so many other things. In recent years, I’ve had two Afghans made for my kids and their children. May they speak as enduringly of my love for them as yours has to me. I love you beyond words and too few opportunities I’ve taken to tell you that.
And to all of you, Merry Christmas. Whenever and whatever you give, give with heart. Those are the real goods.
Subscribe to Metro Times newsletters.
Follow us: Google News | NewsBreak | Reddit | Instagram | Facebook | Twitter
