Presents

Presents are fun. I like both the giving and the getting, as long as the motivation is good. Christmas can be an awful time for obligatory gifts.

My sister's in-laws diligently make lists, set budgets, and share this information with each family member months ahead of Christmas. They even email each other once they've bought something from someone's list so there isn't duplication. Then, on Christmas morning, they give each other the things they specifically asked for. Of course it fits, the colour is right, the model is the exact one they wanted. From the outside, it appears to be an entirely joyless exercise. My own family was heading this direction the last few years, so I decided to do something about it.

Last year, we were all together in my parents' house for the holidays for the first time in years, maybe since my niece was brand new. It was the last time too, as the house is sold now. We put everyone's name in a hat, Mom and Dad included. No keeping your spouse's name, but otherwise, that's who you're responsible for next year. You have a whole year to make a gift specifically for that person. Spend what you need to for materials, no budget. I told them I didn't want their money, I don't need anything, each of them have skills, and I would be happy to have a handmade gift from any of them.

I drew my mother. I'm quite proud of how my gift turned out and the reaction I earned in the giving. It represents about 40 hours of work between design, layout, and execution. It cost me less than $10 and it was fun to make. The rest baked, sewed, stitched, and nailed gifts together. I haven't surveyed the crew to see if it was good enough to do again next year. I hope so.

My in-laws buy stuff for each other, but they go about it with good intentions. They think about a person, what they do, what they might need, things they like, then they go shopping. Inside jokes in place of exhaustive lists prioritized by level of desire. Both brothers bought toys for the other. Grown men giving BB guns and remote controlled helicopters. Usually Mom puts some sort of cheap toy in the stockings, something guaranteed to break within the hour, and we run around racing wind-up cars or shooting each other with Nerf arrows like we're eight years old. 

I hope your Christmas was a good one. Mine sure was. Now go make something.

Hug of the decade

It was the most awkward thing I had ever seen. It should have been simple; a man should be able to hug his son without looking like he's trying to shag a cactus. He was a millionaire (if that means anything anymore) who remembered fondly every dime he had brought in the same way most people remember a favourite aunt. His son, on his 25th birthday, worked for dear old dad learning the trucking business from the shop floor up to driver, presumably soon enough into the office. Hard working kid, if a tad entitled. He would take any load any place, but he might make an unauthorized detour on the way. He'd fix his own equipment, but he  might take tools with him from the shop, and he might complain too loudly about little things. Nice kid, if a bit arrogant.

The old man had, according to the company legend, built a sailboat back in the 70's, which he sold to finance the purchase of an old trucking company. Not that he knew trucks, or how to drive them, only saw an opportunity and hired people to do the work. Equipment was scrounged, stretched, and over-used. Nothing was to be thrown away. Trucks, trailers, chains, employees, use it until it falls completely to pieces. Duct tape and wire and scabbed on pieces of steel kept most things on the road far beyond what reasonable expectations or safety concerns would allow. All in service of another dollar.

Predictably, there had been a failed marriage, doomed from the start by long hours and four tight fists. She had her own company, counting other people's money, and in the end they had two grown children and lawyers with new summer homes. It was a topic best avoided. The daughter only called for money, though it was hard enough to get she might might have had an easier time with a second job. The son worked for his dad, impatiently biding his time, waiting to inherit the kingdom.

So it was that I witnessed the worst hug of the decade. Wealthy, clueless daddy had clearly wandered through a hardware store the day before, hoping for something to jump out at him, and so presented his son with a torque wrench for his birthday. Present unwrapped, Dad went in for the embrace, and there was a long moment where the son didn't understand what was happening. He eventually realized what was expected, and moved to assume the position. Neither of them knew where they were supposed to put their heads, their torsos, how long to hold on. Whose arms go on top? A couple pats on the back and it was finally over. Dad looked proud of how it had all worked out, son stood awkwardly saying thanks for the wrench, and I sat, embarrassed for them both.