December 19, 2006
Tuesday 

A lot of people take vacation days this time of year. It can be hard to transact business or have a problem resolved because key people are out of the office. The television schedules are full of reruns and holiday specials we’ve seen a dozen times. Instead of providing fresh content, syndicated columnists are running “best of” pieces.

I’m off my routine as well. I’m running out of new things to say about the holidays, yet any observations about suburban life I might make don’t seem worth the effort. Several years ago I wrote a memoir of childhood Christmases that I had professionally printed and bound into a booklet. I distributed it to (some might say foisted it upon) people who came to my party or received my annual holiday letter. What follows is a passage adapted from that, about the Christmas I was in fourth or fifth grade.

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Early Christmas morning Rosie and I sat on the floor opening presents. My grandmother, who was also named Margaret and whom we called Mammam, had not yet come downstairs. Mother admonished us to be quiet. I picked up a package lying near me. The wrapping was very elegant, tied with a braided cord that ended in tassels around a glittery fabric rose. The tag read “Margaret,” and even though all my presents were marked “Margy,” I started to rip the paper off and Mother told me to be careful, to take it off all in one piece that she could fold and use again. Under the paper was a hinged box, and I opened it to see sheets of thick white paper decorated with a gold M surrounded by vining green leaves.

“Stationery!” I said with breathless delight, already picturing myself writing thank-you notes to Cousin Anna who’d given me a coin bank shaped like a purse and my violin teacher who had given me a box of white chocolate.

“Let me see that!” my father said sharply. He scowled at me, and his voice was already shaking with anger. He grabbed the box and the paper it had been wrapped in, tearing it more than I had. He looked at the tag. “This is from Cousin Anna! It’s for your grandmother, not you!” he said. “How could you be so stupid!”

I began to cry and he sent me into the kitchen with the box and the wrapping paper and he told me to rewrap it and then go apologize to Mammam. Mammam came downstairs then, and she told me not to worry, that she wasn’t mad at me. She gave me several of the writing sheets. I never used them. Instead I folded them and tucked them into a book, and I kept them for a very long time.

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