Temptation.
That's the trouble with this time of year. Too many temptations. And it's not
just the chocolate and shortbread and all the other delectable holiday goodies
on offer. No. I'm talking about surprises. All those hidden gifts, lurking in
closets or squirrelled away in somebody's sock drawer. If you think about it, presents
are not very good at keeping themselves secret. You can almost hear them
whispering as they wait for the Big Day. "Look
at me! Look at me!"
Of course, now
that I'm a proper grown-up, I use my proper grown-up willpower to avoid closets,
sock drawers, and other hidey-holes in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Even
so, I'm always relieved when the last gift is bound up in shiny paper, tied
with bright ribbon, and nestled safely under the tree. It's so much easier,
then, to resist the temptation to peek. Okay, I might try to catch a glimpse of
a hand-written tag, or maybe move a few packages around. You know, just to make
room for more, not to shake or sniff or weigh a box with my name on it or
anything. Ah-hem. Certainly not! It's
all about the surprise, right? But…
Once upon a
very long time ago, "willpower" was just a word grown-ups used when
what they really meant was, "stop having all that fun!"
It was
December, 1959, two weeks before Christmas. I was nine and a half years old.
Mom was out for the afternoon, Dad was busy in his basement workshop, and I was
hearing gift-whispers all over the house. With Cookie the dog as my trusty lookout,
I tiptoed from room to room. Like a young Nancy Drew with her Togo, we were hot
on the trail of a Christmas mystery. First, we checked the hall closet, rummaging
through a box of scarves and mittens, behind the winter coats and under the boot
rack – nothing. Upstairs, we rooted through the linen closet, opened Mom's
lingerie drawer, and peered under beds – still nothing. My gift had to be
somewhere in the house, I could definitely hear it whispering. In fact, by then,
I was pretty sure I could hear it singing and giggling, too. "Tee-hee-hee and ho-ho-ho, you won't
find me, no matter where you go." Cookie's tail seemed to keep time
with a jolly thump-thump-thump on the floor. Whose side was she on, anyway?
Back in the
kitchen, I pondered the situation while staring out the window at our snow-covered
backyard. Birds fluttered and squabbled at the feeder. A cold wind rattled bare
branches against the frosted windowpane. Downstairs, Dad whistled as he swept
his workshop floor. Beside me, Cookie yawned and huffed, turning lazy circles
before settling onto her mat for a nap. And the whispering gift had grown so
quiet I could barely hear it any more. Ah-ha!
What do you do when you're hiding and the seeker comes close? Hold your breath.
Stay quiet. Don't whisper. I turned to study the kitchen. Where would I hide? Not
in the cupboards or cutlery drawers – too much traffic – but what about the
junk drawer?
Dry wood squealed
a warning as I pulled it open. I froze. Cookie snored. Dad whistled. I held my
breath and eased the drawer wide. There, tucked into a corner and poorly
camouflaged by a jumble of elastic bands, playing cards, envelopes and postage
stamps, was a neatly folded piece of crisp, white paper. The whispering
stopped. I reached for the paper, carefully unfolded it, and read. This was it!
Not the gift itself, but a receipt dated three days before, for "one
transistor radio, pink."
Dad's
footsteps sounded on the basement stairs. Cookie scrambled to her feet and ran
to meet him at the kitchen door. I must have re-folded the paper and closed the
drawer but I don't remember doing so. I managed to forget about the whispers
and my afternoon of sleuthing, too. Until, gathered around our tree on
Christmas morning, my parents put that perfect little gift in my hands. I
looked up at their happy faces, so eager to see my surprise and delight, and
all I could think of was "one transistor radio, pink."
Smile, I
told myself. Act surprised. Don't let them know. I pulled on the ribbon, peeled
back the paper, opened the box… and burst into tears.
I'd like to
think that Mom and Dad never suspected I'd peeked, that they believed my tears
were tears of happiness, that I hadn't disappointed them. But I have a feeling
they both knew exactly why I was crying. I loved that pink transistor radio and
made sure they knew it. But my sneaky peeking had, in some small way, spoiled the
celebration – not only for me, but for the people who loved me best.
So, take it from me. No matter how many gift whispers you might think you hear this holiday season, don't become a sneaky peeker. Get yourself
some proper grown-up willpower and savour the surprise.
Merry Christmas,
everyone!
stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington
Labels: Cheryl Cooke Harrington, Christmas, Cookie the Dog, Dad, dogs, family story, humor, kids, love, memories, Mom, nostalgia, pets, surprise
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