“What a beautiful day,” my wife said.
I cringed when I heard her words. A fresh six-inch blanket of snow had fallen on our little community as if dumped by the world’s largest Tonka truck. I didn’t have to look out the window to see the icicles hanging from the rooftops, glistening like diamond pendants. I could feel the cold air stinging my cheeks. In an unconscious reaction, I squinted from the bright sun reflecting off the snow.
“I think I’ll stay home and catch up on stuff,” I said, reading the subtext behind her admiration of the landscape. She wanted me to go Christmas shopping with her. I wanted to stay home and relax.
Even if I wasn’t leaving, I had to make it possible for others to go. I also had to appear industrious, or I might be deprived of leaning back in my easy chair to read a book. When peace and quiet has been earned, it’s even more enjoyable. In the next thirty minutes, I shoveled the snow from the walk to the driveway, edge-to-edge, door to street.
Our kids had completed their snow sculpting. Snow forts bordered the driveway and the street, connected by a labyrinth of tunnels. Supplies of snowballs were cached away, ready to withstand any assaults. Snowmen stood as rotund sentries, watching with their eyes of coal but never speaking. Snow angels invoked divine protection.
Christmas was only a few days away, and I was working my annual shopping plan: let my wife do it. I waved to her and my daughter Meaghan as they left. The three boys continued their winter-long street hockey game at their friend’s house. Our eldest daughter Shannon was diligently pursuing her college studies at the nearby campus library.
The house belonged to me. I was ready to get busy. Even the cat got out of my way, running to the girl’s bedroom where she loved to curl up on the bed.
It was time to plunge deep into my recliner with my new book. Halfway through chapter two, I put the book down. This wasn’t working. What should I be
doing? When my wife got home, would she think I had wasted the day? From somewhere, the idea struck me: I could help her by wrapping Christmas presents. I resisted, saying, Get thee behind me, Satan. I picked up the book and let a few more pages drift before my eyes. I only saw the words. I didn’t grasp the meaning, because my mind was occupied with the work I needed to do. I closed the book and shut my eyes. This too shall pass.
I popped an old movie into the VCR and lay on the couch, hoping the idea would dissipate in the drama of The Maltese Falcon. It didn’t.
Where were the wrapping supplies? If my wife hadn’t bought them yet, that would be a sign that my need to work had come from an eggnog hangover. Nope. I found everything I needed in the bedroom closet—rolls of Christmas paper, tape, and scissors. The ribbons and bows and name tags were on the top shelf. I was down to one remaining excuse. Where were the presents that needed to be wrapped?
The whole family knew that answer. There are only so many places where Mom could hide presents. I admired my kids for never sneaking up to the attic to take a peak. Or were they so good with their sneaking that I never knew? If so, the presents still needed to be wrapped so they could act surprised.
I had everything I needed. No excuses. I got
myself organized, putting my top priorities first: a cup of tea followed by lunch. Then I needed to finish watching that movie. The unwrapped presents still begged for attention. Time to go to work.
Two hours later, I was sitting in the middle of the living room with scraps of wrapping paper littering the floor. Here and there, scrunched-up wads of paper that had been cut too small dotted the carpet like rainbow-colored bocce balls.
A few neatly wrapped presents sat under the tree.
Other unwrapped gifts awaited my creative expressions. I spilled the package of bows while reaching for the tape dispenser. I expected to find it with the rolls of wrapping paper, but it had made its usual journey to hide behind my back at the moment I needed it. The scissors were again burrowed under the paper. I had never before met inanimate objects so adept at playing hide-and-seek. It was the cat’s fault.
Princess was strutting about like she was the queen, as if the purpose of humans was to simply feed and amuse her. She decided to share in the spirit of Christmas by leaping onto the presents, sprawling on the spread-out paper, and testing the thickness of the wrapping with her claws. She attacked the tape dispenser like it was the greatest threat to catkind since the creation of the dog. She was as useful to me as snow skis at the beach.
“Go back to bed,” I said, as if I thought she would listen. The temptation to trim her whiskers percolated along with those words of wisdom: It’s always easier to get forgiveness than permission. However, she didn’t stay still long enough for me to enact my plot. Exasperated, I stuck a big red bow on her head.
Princess looked at me with great disdain, as if she had been crowned with something other than gold. She pranced away, trying to shake off the offensive chapeau without losing her dignity.
Only minutes after Princess left, I heard the back door open and close.
“Hey, Dad! I’m home.” Shannon’s tone came as a warning, as if any secrets should be concealed before she came in.
I glanced to my side, making sure her presents were snuggled under the tree. Yes, there they were, in their shiny multi-colored paper. “I’m in here,” I said.
She walked into the living room and surveyed the scene with the air that only a college sophomore can present. She pointed at the tree. “Dad, did you wrap all those presents?” She seemed startled at the wondrous sight of my endeavors.
“Yes, I did.”
“That’s pretty good.” She paused. “Because usually, white men can’t wrap.” She maintained a perfectly deadpan expression.
I sat for a moment, silenced and dumfounded, as the victim of a budding comic genius. “That’s a good one, Shannon. I’m proud of you.”
As she walked into the kitchen, she said with shock and dismay, “Oh, my goodness. I’ve turned into my father.”