If I look deep within myself with unalloyed honesty, I’m not sure I ever completely forgave my brother for giving me an ice scraper for Christmas.
Don’t get me wrong: As ice scrapers go, it was just fine. It had the little teeth on the edge to rip into ice and there was a nice UMaine logo on the handle. Plus, he’d taken the time to slap a bow on her, so you know. A for effort.
But still. If memory served, that was the year I’d prepared for my brother the ultimate single-guy Christmas package. There was a cassette tape containing 16 classical music hits, there were several varieties of the finest cheese that come individually wrapped, there were mini bottles of wine, including red, white and the loveliest Cabernet Franc one could find at Lou’s Liquor and Redemption Center down on Front Street.
Plus, I threw in a bottle of Brut splash-on lotion, which was the cologne of choice at the time among guys who just didn’t have time to take a shower.
It was one fine Christmas package, assembled with great care and wrapped neatly by whomever was my girlfriend at the time.
And I got an ice scraper.
To be fair, my brother was in college at the time and living on a Ramen noodles budget, whereas I was pumping gas and making sweet Puffin Stop money.
And to be even further fair, the two of us teamed up that very same year to completely screw an older brother with a gift that was even crappier than a UMaine ice scraper: Somewhere around midnight on Christmas Eve, absolutely overflowing with 16-ounce cans of holiday cheer, we rummaged through a junk drawer and just started wrapping random items. Door knob? Happy birthday, Bro. Rusty cupboard hinge? Don’t say I never got you anything. Spent D-cell battery? Now, you be sure to share that with your friends.
Ah, yes. The Christmas of 19-whenever that was. The year John got a doorknob, Steve got a bottle of Brut and I got a freakin’ ice scraper. I’ll remember that Christmas into my doddering years because it was perhaps the best I’ve ever had. It was the year before tragedy would reduce the number of brothers from four to three and before general family drift took its toll.
Ah, distinctly I remember the way Steve and I squirmed with embarrassment on Christmas morning, remembering our foray into the junk drawer that had seemed so hilarious just a few hours earlier. I remember the look of confusion on John’s face when he got to unwrapping that only-slightly-used doorknob, followed by a well-acted display of joy and gratitude. I remember everyone stressing that the smell of Brut is really delightful and how an ice scraper is a perfectly fine gift.
It’s not. It’s an ice scraper.
I wonder if I’d remember the details of that Christmas so vividly if Steve had gotten me a nice watch that year, or if we’d teamed up to buy John something practical, like a belt sander or a blow gun. We tend to recall that day with fondness not in spite of the inane gifts on the tree but because of them. Maybe the value of a gift is in what it says about the relationship between he who gives it and he who receives.
If you can’t go big, in others words, at least go memorable.
So, if you’re struggling over what to buy your wife, fiancee or dear old mom for Christmas this year, my advice is this: get her a doorknob, a rusty hinge or a spent D-cell battery. There may be confusion and rage at first, but she’ll come to appreciate the message in that gift, mark my words. You’ll thank me later.
Probably, you’ll thank me.
Don’t get your loved one an ice scraper, however. That’s just stupid.
Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can thank him for the true meaning of Christmas at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.
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