No, No Noel

Just before Christmas, when my father couldn’t put it off any longer, he would venture out to Macy’s or Bloomingdales to pick out a gift for my mother. He detested the whole process, the crowds, the frenzy, floor upon floor of gift options. He knew going in that it was a thankless pursuit because my mother never liked what he chose.

My father tried so hard but it was our annual ritual in holiday disappointment. When I got older, my father enlisted my help and we would go shopping to find a lovely scarf or a piece of jewelry. Then we’d cross our fingers. But, come Christmas morning, my mother would rip open the wrapping on my dad’s gift, unfold the tissue paper, and then stare blankly at the item. As she looked up, it was as if she’d smelled something fairly foul. Next, with a slow Brooklyn-accented drawl, she’d say, “What is this?” which was actually code for “You failed me again.” Soon after the holiday she would run over to Macys or Bloomingdales and return my father’s gifts for something she liked.

Finally, defeated, my father gave up. He simply gave her money and she’d go out and buy her own gifts. He would wrap them and my mother would act surprised on Christmas morning. Then one year, since my mother seem to like my gifts a bit better than my father’s, I bought her a beautiful shawl and gave it to him to give to her. It didn’t matter though, for as soon as she opened the gift from my father and saw the shawl, she drawled “What is this?” as per usual.

Fa La La - Phooey

Soon my parents had a bright idea. I would do all the shopping. My mother would tell me what to buy for my father and also what I should buy for my father to give to her. Then I would buy gifts for myself for them to give to me. On Christmas morning I’d bring all the gifts (including one for the dog) and engage in clandestine meetings where I would tell each parent separately what they owed me for the gifts. I insisted that they at least had to wrap the presents themselves.

One year I saw a hat in a catalog of Victorian-inspired clothing. It was festooned with silken flowers, feathers, ribbons, lace and netting, a veritable cornucopia of faux flora. My mother sang with a troupe of senior performers and would wear the hat on stage, I hoped. On Christmas day she warily inspected the package, shook it and finally opened it. As she lifted the big hat from the box, her eyes got very wide. Then she started to cackle with joy. She ran to the mirror in the bedroom and put it on. She cackled some more while dancing and strutting around the apartment. The hat was a hit. I’d never seen my mother react that way before and I felt delighted and oddly victorious. Perhaps I’d broken the curse.

Sadly though, I was never able to reproduce that hat response again. After my father died and I was the sole gift-giver, she would open her gifts and, with a newly adopted European affectation, say “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” (She’d been a French major, after all).

When my mother passed away several years ago I cleaned out her closet and donated most of her clothing. But I couldn’t give away the hat. It’s not that I’ll ever wear it. But it was something that she loved so dearly that I just couldn’t part with it. And I fully expect that when I go, the friends and family cleaning out my closet will discover the hatbox, shake it once or twice, open it and find the aging millinery marvel. Then they’ll probably look at each other and say “What is this??”

Mona Finston is a former vocalist, a freelance publicist and is currently working on a screenplay and a book of essays about her mother.