Christmas 2019
When we were first married, the Mister’s father gave us one share ofstock in Scott Paper. It seemed a bit odd at the time but there wassomething lovely in that gift that I didn’t originally appreciate. I wasthinking about that the other day as my Christmas “tissue” blog isbeing re-blogged below.
The Scott Paper people apparently didn’t care if you had one or one million shares of their stock. They still sent you a Christmas present every year. A giant box full of paper towels, toilet paper and, of course, tissues. Being a teensy bit poor during that time, that box was manna from heaven for us. Our appreciation of that box of "necessaries" was truly joyful.
Now I’m wondering if that was the forerunner of my “tissue” issue. See what you think.
The Mister and I wish you the very happiest of Christmases.
The Christmas Spirit
Theyear was 1961. I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Musicas a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year. I was in love(still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.
ButChristmas was always hard for me. What to give to my parents? My father neverwore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, boughthis own socks and had no hobbies. My mother was choosy about the things shewore and the things she had in the house. I always had great angst about whatto give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hopedthey would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear.Still, I bought it. There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however. I wasworried and poorer…not a good combination.
TheConservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town. It wassurrounded by poverty level housing and people. There was a drug store rightacross the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.
Oneday, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff,not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An olderwoman was in front of me. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold BostonDecember day. It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat,but the thought was fleeting.
Andthen something happened that I will never forget. As my arms were carelesslyfull of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues. And I heardher say to the clerk: “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really likeit.”
Ifind myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears.It was a hard reality. She was delighted with her choice of a gift for herfriend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love andaffection.
AndI was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needednothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway? Not a Christmasgoes by that I don’t think about that moment.
Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing ones that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated.
Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree. Santa Claus does exist. But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, in its own way, a real meaning of Christmas.