Renee Noel, Author

Holiday Musings

When I was a little girl, my family started the tradition of allowing all six of us kids to draw names so we didn’t have to buy gifts at Christmas for five siblings. At the time I thought it was genius. We could concentrate on a special present for one person rather than go broke trying to stretch our allowances. Now that I’m a parent, I see the real genius was it saved my mom and dad money given they were our official employers and suppliers of the allowance.

We were born every two years—the largest age gap is between me, the oldest, and my youngest brother, who is ten years my junior. Needless to say, the spread accounted for some inequity in gift-giving over the years.

Eventually all of us hoped our name would be drawn by the siblings who actually had money—babysitting, a mall job—any potential source could translate to a better present. We were still ages away from such promising potential the year my brother, Tommy, first drew my name.

Tommy hadn’t even entered his double-digits. His only resource was the twenty-dollar bill Mom and Dad gave him to buy me something at the church Christmas bazaar we were all attending that Thanksgiving weekend.

I must have been about eleven–somewhere between barbies and clothes. Tommy had his sights set on an ornately decorated pirate’s chest spilling over with costume jewelry. It was filled with other unknown buried treasures yet to be discovered. This chest was nothing short of magical and every kid in the bazaar coveted it, me included.

He could afford it, because the entire chest cost only one dollar …

per raffle ticket.

My mom watched, with a swelling heart, her little boy circle the gym passing by and passing up, opportunities to buy homemade stockings, close pin ornaments, and handmade dolls and bags. Again and again, he returned to the raffle parting with one more dollar. Every dollar a symbol of hope. Every dollar a commitment to a pirate fantasy. Every lap he could afford less of anything else at the bazaar.

Surely, he would win. No other person who attended the sale that day had invested more dollars, or bought more opportunities to win the magical treasure chest.

To this day, Tommy’s a safe gambler and good at math. He knew he needed to increase his odds to capture the prize for my Christmas present. And so he spent almost all of his twenty dollars on raffle tickets.

He didn’t win.

Little Tommy, now greatly disappointed that he could not surprise, nor impress his big sister with the best gift at the bazaar, bought the only thing he could with the few cents he had left in his pocket.

He knew the rules. This was a present and so he carefully wrapped his purchase.

He placed the large box under the tree that my parents put up that weekend. Then he violated all tradition and warned me,

“You better open it now. I don’t think it will last ‘till Christmas.”

With soaring curiosity over what could be wrapped in the heavy box, I tore open the wrapping paper while my brother watched with an unreadable expression on his face.

Inside the box was a rather large squash. Not a squash racket. We didn’t know what that was back then anyway. Not a ceramic squash that could weirdly decorate a pre-teen’s room. It was a very real, perfectly ripe squash that looked just like a pumpkin.

“It was the only thing I could afford,” he admitted.

I looked at Mom and Dad the way an oldest child does when they seek cues for how to act. I knew I was not supposed to act like a disappointed big sister at the moment.

They hinted I take the whole exchange seriously. They knew Tommy was probably more devastated than I was disappointed. Yet somehow my little brother knew it was still important I have something to unwrap under the tree. So we all went through with the charade.

“Thank you?”

Tommy didn’t just give me a gift with a thousand seeds that year. He gave our family a story that would get told year after year with much joy and hilarity.

Arguably, Tommy grew up to be the most generous of all of us siblings. (For a period of time, we all hoped he would draw our name at Christmas.) I don’t think his generosity had anything to do with redemption for the year of the squash. I think it was his generous nature that fueled the dream of the glorious pirate’s chest of treasures.

We’ve all been grown-ups for a very long time now. My family still draws names and we’ve added spouses to the mix. But these days, what was once a sweet and practical tradition feels uncomfortably something else.

I drew my brother in-law this year. I asked my sister what he wanted and she sent me an idea.

She texted a photo and link of something called clear ice. My brother-in-law is a whiskey connoisseur. He enjoys treating his guests to finely aged whiskeys served with stunningly clear ice cubes. Okay, this is a theme I can work with.

I looked up clear ice expecting to find molds, maybe a machine, or some fancy storing system. However, the link she sent to me was for actual ice. At first, I thought it was a joke. I still don’t think I really understood what I was buying until I saw that it had a sixty-dollar shipping fee. I was literally purchasing frozen water – water that had to be immediately shipped before it melted!

Please don’t hate me whiskey lovers, but here, I draw the line. Why am I purchasing water – granted very clear frozen water without any flaws visible to the naked human eye –for a Christmas present? A present my brother-in-law could afford and one that is so ephemeral it will literally melt if sent through regular mail.

My sister laughed when I shared my version of the story.

 “I was just trying to think about what he enjoys,” she admitted. “I’m so tired of trying to think of gifts.”

There’s an absurdity in exchanging Amazon Christmas lists with people . We tell our so-called Secret Santas exactly what we want down to size and color. I don’t like the way gift giving has morphed away from its potential to be thoughtful and meaningful. It feels like a transaction. Somehow I think there was more heart in my brother’s squash.

“This is why Christmas is always so stressful,” I complained, not for the first time.

Thoughtful and meaningful is stressful when you are trying to be so for family, friends, and neighbors all in about four weeks time.

We both agreed we’ve reached a new stage in life. Heads up Family, we want to rethink the name drawing tradition.

“Maybe it’s time to focus on experiences,” my sister agrees.

I don’t claim to have all the answers right now. I do know I’m not a great gift giver. My husband is. It’s one of his love languages and he does so all year round, so much so that I feel awkward having him worry about buying me a Christmas gift.

My ways of loving my family and friends are more subtle.

I love planning the perfect vacation. I enjoyed the hunt with my sister to find an amazing beach house for my dad’s 80^th birthday last year. I was thrilled to collaborate on a girls’ weekend in the mountains during fall leaf peeping season.

I love hosting, even if I hate cleaning, the four-day Thanksgiving weekend filled with traditions of tree trimming, watching movies, and concocting craft cocktails-some which fail spectacularly.

I love discovering the perfect restaurant and negotiating for the perfect table so we either have a view or are warmed by the fireplace while we dine.

I love that I can transform our home with lights and plants and create a place where my grown and nearly grown children want to return and bring their friends, put together puzzles, and sleep in.

I love creating traditions with my friends where we watch the sunrise over a sandy beach from coffee to cordials, dress up for crazy costume parties, or just text each other every time we read something that sets our hair on fire!

I love that my family, including all six of us siblings; their spouses and children; my parents, aunts and uncles; still make an effort to coordinate Christmas every few years so that us out-of-staters can all share time and space together.

So gifts aren’t my love language and that’s why I probably get a bit crazed every December. I’m also realizing my brother gave us much more than a good story. We don’t have to get it just right to remind someone how much they mean to us. Memories are the most precious gifts in life.

Merry, Happy!