Gifts of the Magi

My most cherished, and one of my earliest memories, is of Christmas 1951. I was five and it was the most magical Christmas ever. As family tradition dictated, on Christmas Eve, my brother and I were required to hide under the covers in our beds until one of our parents excitedly entered the bedroom to announce Santa had visited, upon which we squealed and scrambled out of bed and ran in a frenzy to the living room. To my utter amazement, that Christmas I found a perfectly crafted American Flyer doll pram in a deep navy blue sitting next to the Christmas tree. After giving it a push around the dining room table, Mom handed me a box to open. Inside, was the night gown I had shyly asked for from the Santa at the department store where my dad worked. I asked shyly, because Santa had bad breath, like old soda crackers and he had black hairs hanging from his nose. Something was amiss about Santa and it made me wonder if I could trust him to honor my request, or to even remember it. I also felt shy because I had a sneaking suspicion this Santa might be an imposter. I knew all about those imposter Santas, the skinny ones with fake beards who stood on the street corner and rang a bell for the Salvation Army. Sometimes, you knew there was a fake Santa when you saw two or more on the same street or in the same store and realized one human, magical or not, could not occupy more than one space at a time. Another clue that you sat on an imposter's lap was the obvious differences in Santa's appearance from one year to the next. Some Santas looked too young, or their bellies were lumpy because stuffing had obviously been used to make him fatter. Sometimes, Santa's outfit looked rather cheesy, with patches of its red velvet nap worn off, the white fur trim turned gray, and the patent of his wide, black belt all cracked. Fashion maven even at five, I noticed these kinds of things. One year, Santa had two different eyebrows: one was dark brown while the other one was white and much thicker. No wonder I was shyly asking. If Santa was an imposter, exactly whose lap was I sitting on?

However, old Cracker Breath remembered my request. Pink satin trimmed in ivory lace with a bodice woven in ribbon and tiny cream-colored satin roses. Just like Cinderella! Without hesitation, I stood in the middle of the living room, tore off my pajamas, and donned the nightgown. Somewhere there is a picture of me standing next to my pram in that nightgown that made me feel like a princess and my baby brother sits in the pram looking wide-eyed and stunned. Perhaps, he was in awe of my riches and beauty. Then again, he was only two and more likely was trying to process how and why he was put into a doll's pram. Wrapped in all this holiday delirium, I had failed to notice the doll that sat beneath the tree. She was dressed in a white satin bridal gown with a netted veil attached to her blond hair adorned with white satin flowers. Over her long white silk stockings, she wore tiny, white felt shoes with a small rhinestone on each toe. A small bouquet of artificial flowers was tied with a white ribbon to one of her wrists. The Effanbee doll was beautiful. I am not sure how my parents were able to afford such expensive gifts that year. Maybe Dad had gotten a raise or a bonus, but I am not surprised that I don't remember one gift my two-year-old brother received. Surely he got gifts, something no too interesting, like a truck or something. That year, Bro, it was all about me!

The best memory that comes from 1951's Christmas, however, is not really the toys themselves, but the looks of expectation and excitement on my parents' faces as they watched me light up in delight and awe when each present was handed to me. As little as I was, their eyes filled with happiness somehow burned into my child's mind and the memory remains with me to this day. My parents were in their middle twenties at that time and as struggling young parents did not have "cash flow." And yet, they found a way to ensure my brother and me a Christmas like no other - one, I believe, they themselves were never able to experience as children. These were not just toys to make me happy; they truly represented the spirit of Christmas, offered with complete and unconditional love, like the gifts of the Magi. But not until I had my own children was I able to understand the power and magic of that kind of love.

Year five was big for me. On my birthday, June 16th, the Ginny Doll became one of my favorites. She came in a small trunk (again, a carrying case!) that housed tiny dresses hung on bitty hangers and hats and shoes that were stored in small drawers. Later, I learned that my mother and grandmother had sewn the half dozen or so outfits for the doll themselves, making the gift even more precious to me. My dad teased me unmercifully whenever I became stubborn or misbehaved by threatening to put my Ginny in the closet, whereupon he would contact Santa and tell him to bring me the Poor Pitiful Doll to replace her. Poor Pitiful Pearl was fashioned from a character created by cartoonist and illustrator William Steig. Below is a picture of this doll, homely and dressed in clothing from my worst childhood nightmare, which was having something that was not deemed lovely, perfectly clear, pretty, or well-done. I am not sure where that particular personality trait came from (maybe my perfectionist father?), but there it is and for better or worse remains a characteristic that defines me still. There are women my age today who claim Pearl was their favorite doll, but apparently, I had expressed my distaste for her because she was used to threaten me into obedience. Not surprisingly, Steig was also the creator of Shrek.

A Paradox: I still believe this is one of the ugliest dolls I have ever seen. For some reason, I imagine this is what Barbara Streisand might have looked like as a little girl, and yet I believe Streisand to be beautiful.

My father spanked me only once. I had just turned four and the event occurred after I had taken my little art scissors and cut a neat round hole right in the middle of the brand-new red leather, child-sized chair I had gotten for my birthday. I had a penchant for cutting materials that fascinated me. At one point, I cut the tips of the rubber fingers off a beautiful life-sized doll my parents had bought me. I don't remember the punishment for that act of vandalism, perhaps my parents decided my innocent response that I was cutting my doll's fingernails won me a reprieve from a spanking, but they also may have just hidden my scissors. But to this day, I remember the exquisite feel of cutting through the plush rubber of the poor doll's fingers. So squishy and pliant! Regardless, I am surprised my parents bothered to buy me anything of value once they had determined their first-born was an Edward Scissorhands. If you visit me today, you will see a gorgeous red leather chair in my living room that is rarely sat in and is in perfect condition, my perfectionism apparently winning out over my fetish for cutting up things. But still . . . I wonder what it would feel like to cut off Pearl's nose?