It wasn’t a bad gift. I would characterize it more as a misguided gift from a loving but somewhat lazy son.
It wasn’t even entirely my fault. My friend Tom Casey nodded in approval when I picked it out and I think he even considered buying one himself. Fortunately for him, I bought the last one so he had to settle for a classier gift at Spencer’s Gift’s Emporium.
There had been “misguided gifts” before like the drug store perfume and the decorative ashtray but this one was so off the mark that it was never actually displayed in our home. Even the tacky decoupage plaque with Joni Mitchell lyrics found some wall space for a few months.
In my defense, many people have selected misguided gifts for their parents. Among the better tales I heard around Allen this week was one boy’s gift of men’s hair color for his graying father. Other memorable gifts presented by teenagers to their parents included garden rakes, a carton of cigarettes and giant Kermit The Frog slippers.
For years gift giving in the Carroll household was a supervised activity. It started with “here – give this to your brother.” Later, mom gave me money to buy my father and brother a gift. I had the money but it still had to pass the “mom test.”
The gift selection process went downhill when I had my first job and the ability to buy whatever I wanted. Tom and I made our way to the mother of all New Jersey shopping destinations - Willowbrook Mall. It was Christmas Eve (of course) and we needed to start and finish our shopping. We wandered the mall searching for gifts that met our needs and price point.
Panic set in as the mall’s early closing time approached. Certainly the nation’s largest mall had something special for my deserving parents.
“We’ve got to beat the traffic out of here,” Tom encouraged.
I made a quick decision and purchased the item that would set the standard for poor gift giving in northern Jersey and possibly the nation in 1974.
It was a large wooden plaque that you might find in a trophy shop. Its surface was covered with “antique” pounded copper and large rivets. Attached to the plaque were two crossed swords with a mace hanging down across them. All three of the medieval weapons could be removed and used in case of a barbarian home invasion.
My parents politely accepted the misguided gift but could never find the right spot to hang it. It traveled from the dining room closet to the basement a year or so later and hid itself inside my father’s workbench for the next twenty-five years.
Cleaning out the house after my mother died, I found the offensive gift. Other than some dust and extra scratches, it had survived fairly well. I considered hauling it back to Texas but I knew the FAA and my wife would have strongly objected.
Instead, I tossed it the trash – something my mother never had the heart to do.
There is a lesson to be learned here. Finish your shopping before 3 pm on Christmas Eve and think carefully before you buy any weapons for your parents.
Send your comments and column ideas to flipside@tx.rr.com. I look forward to hearing from you.
No comments:
Post a Comment