The three-dimensional holiday cards made from tissue paper, floss (really? dental floss?) and wild asparagus paper, no less, approach a crafter's pinnacle. Given one, I know I'd feel charmed and special that someone took the time and effort to make it and give it to dense, fumble-fingered, impatient me.
Maybe if I were the rich, old guy in the current TV commercial who throws the expensive cards and gifts in a corner and smiles at the lone relative who made something unique, if not well-crafted, I'd be impressed. Just keep the next logical thought, the next justification out of the picture of gift-giving.
I buy what gifts I give. And I am not a slug. I am a person who is grateful I never had to work with sharp equipment that requires coordination. By this time I would have lost eight fingers followed by hands at the wrist. Give me a politically correct pass for keeping health care costs within reach of the rich.
Last weekend I slogged to three holiday craft fairs and open houses to buy the stuff some people believe represents the only true meaning of giving. It is astounding the ingenuity and craftsmanship nimble-fingered humans have. People crochet and knit; make soap, ceramics, salsa, fudge; quilt; bead; and turn marshmallows into ammunition. I buy and my husband wraps because we both recognize who is the superior shopper and neater wrapper.
It's not that I haven't tried. When I was first married, my mother-in-law signed me up for a craft-of-the-month club so I would feel included in the womanly arts of my new extended family. For a year and a half I diligently raised my blood pressure and swore under my breath to complete gluing the miniature rocking chair plant holder and embroidered toaster cover.
It was my husband who gently allowed me off the hook of responsibility to his family. He came home to find me huddled over a poorly folded greeting card with glued-on buttons that I was trying to color in with special markers. When I barked because he asked what was for dinner, he said, "But you cook OK." Oh, thank you. Something I can do.
Please be happy when I give chocolate-covered pretzels or baby hat made by someone else. Though you'd be forced to be gracious, you wouldn't like something I made and I'd probably get it returned to me as a white elephant gift. As a shopper, I'm still supporting the economy of one person.
I do enjoy receiving gifts hand-made by talented people. I'm willing to appreciate another's talent. But don't feel bad if you ran up the charge card on me, and I'll also be perfectly happy, in fact exceedingly pleased, if we can just meet for lunch. I'll even pay my way.
---
Rebecca Guevara's first novel, The Trading of Ken, has just been published. She is a local freelance writer.
