Your Mountain Times staff is a grateful staff.
“Thank” and “you” are two words kept at the
top of our lexicon, and occasionally we’ll use them together,
like, “You had better thank us for that free paper.”
In all honesty, though, don’t mention it. Consider it a gift.
We hope you like it and that it’s one of your favorites.
Now that we’re on the subject, here are some of our favorite
gifts from Christmases past.
Imaginary
Jeff Eason rides his imaginary stunt bike to imaginary new
heights in daredevilry. |
When I was 12 years old, I received the Holy Grail
of Christmas presents: a motorized mini-bike. I can’t recall
how many horses of power it had, but there were enough to go about
30 miles per hour through our suburban neighborhood north of Detroit.
This being the early 1970s, the first thing I tried to do with
my new mini-bike was an Evel Knievel imitation. There was a little
mound in our front yard and I would race down our street to pick
up speed, angle into our driveway then onto the yard, hit the
mound and become airborne.
It wasn’t exactly the fountain at Caesar’s Palace, but
it was exhilarating! I practiced until I had my jumps down perfect,
then I got my dad to watch from the front door. The first time
I did it in front of dad, I got a little too airborne. I could
feel the mini-bike escape my grasp in midair, and we both hit
the ground with a painful thump. I emerged from the stunt with
bruises on my butt and ego, while the mini-bike’s rear fender
had to be hammered back into place. It was the first time I took
a spill on that mini-bike, but definitely not the last. Ahh, good
times.
Nothing. |
Choosing my favorite Christmas gift of all was the
easiest Mountain Tops yet. I am getting “it” this year
from my family – nothing.
That is not a typo. As a collective, we’ve decided to forego
gift giving this year. Shopping for trinkets and sweaters does
not appeal to any of us, and, as I am the youngest member of my
family, we don’t have any children to think about. Though
I am slightly disappointed I will not be receiving a brand-new
pink bicycle with training wheels this year, I suppose I will
live.
It has been such a relief not be out fighting crowds and brainstorming
gift ideas, and I am sure the feeling is mutual throughout the
family. We will still be celebrating the holiday by gathering
at my parents’ house, eating far too much turkey and playing
the usual board games. The big change is stretching only our belts,
not our wallets.
The main problem is that purchasing a gift for a three-year-old
is so much easier than for a 30-year-old. A two-dollar box of
crayons and some construction paper just don’t cover it anymore.
The holiday is more about spending time enjoying one another’s
company than unwrapping presents anyway. I have been looking forward
to this Christmas more than any other in recent years. The best
present of all time – nothing and the stress relief that
comes with it. I am still counting down days, not until gifts,
but until the second serving of pumpkin pie and a fierce game
of Apples to Apples!
Scott
wanted to be Jimmy Page, only with more chest hair and less
Satanic eyes. |
My favorite Christmas present was a bunch of puppies.
I was living in Chapel Hill at the time, attending college except
for all those classes I skipped. My roommate had a gorgeous huskie-German
shepherd mix named Fox who must have lived up to her name, because
she sure had a lot of furry gentlemen callers that year. We lived
in an old sharecropper’s house on a piece of property affectionately
known as “Hippie Hollow,” and I volunteered to stay
and keep track of the homestead and pups instead of visiting relatives
for the holidays. Besides, I’m not sure I had a car at the
time, and I didn’t have money for presents.
I’m not sure about a lot of things from those years, except
I think I was playing guitar because I’d spent my student
financial aid on an amplifier. And I had duct-taped my tennis
shoes together. Well, not together, but rather I wrapped the tape
around them where the inseams had split. Those puppies were cute,
and gave me an excuse to completely avoid the holiday hubbub.
Jokes about the peace pipe and trying to learn the backwards notes
to “Stairway To Heaven” aside, it was probably the best
Christmas present I can never fully remember: a truly holy and
calm solstice season.
The
Super Soaker 5000 was a hit with kids and firefighters. |
The words still echo in my mind. “Get wet,
yet?” the punk asked, before dumping a bucket of water on
my head. My Fred Flintstone shirt was soaked, as were my spirits.
The first five minutes of “Splash Day” at the summer
day camp were not living up to the harmless zaniness the name
implied, though my blue plastic squirt gun was living up to its
own implications, namely it being a blue plastic squirt gun. My
“Splash Day” enthusiasm may have been doused, but my
calculating 7-year-old mind knew there would be another time.
There were plenty. Random water skirmishes were common in my neighborhood,
and using power transformers as cover from water balloons made
perfect sense. Having engaged in such a backyard skirmish that
following summer, I was introduced firsthand to the latest in
water weaponry – the Super Soaker 50. A monstrosity of neon
yellow and green plastic, this water cannon boasted shooting distances
of 50 feet by way of a pressurized reservoir propulsion system
that drenched the living hell out of me. I stood in awe, and then
retaliated with a garden hose. Needless to say, it made my Christmas
list (the Super Soaker, not the garden hose) and on Dec. 25, the
state of modern water warfare changed forever in the neighborhood.
The following year, the Super Soaker folks would begin planning
for a higher-caliber model, sparking the Waterarms Race of the
Late ’80s. The Super Soaker 100 was released in 1990, superior
in capacity and distance but lacking in reliability and craftsmanship.
Come to think of it, the original one broke quite a bit, too,
but that didn’t stop subsequent models from hitting the streets
and our wish-lists. I stopped at 300, which malfunctioned its
first day out of the box. Now they’re up to 10,000 or something,
and I think they’re only available to municipal fire departments,
but no matter. As my penchant for water weaponry subsided, I began
to appreciate the holidays for their finer, less-tangible qualities.
And then Sony began mass-marketing the Discman portable CD player.
Totally
’nuff said. |
I don’t know if you could say present this
was my absolute favorite, but it was the one I most frequently
received: Barbie. My sister and I consistently received Barbies
for every Christmas, birthday and other gift-giving occasion for
the first 10 years of our lives.
We had bins and toy boxes overflowing with Barbies and their accessories.
Look under any piece of furniture and you would think that some
army of tiny fashionable people had just vacated the area, leaving
their mini hot-pink shoes and hair brushes behind.
I had Wedding Barbie, Princess Barbie, Veterinarian Barbie, Aerobics
Barbie, Ice Skating Barbie, the Barbie Dream House, the Barbie
RV and the Barbie convertible. And it was all pink! My favorite,
and the envy of the neighborhood, was Totally Hair Barbie, she
had hair that came down to her feet for optimal styling.
Between my sister and I, we only had one Ken. His head frequently
fell off, but I don’t recall us ever wanting another one.
His clothes were rarely pink or sparkly and his hair was a solid
dome of plastic, so we really didn’t have much use for him.
A single defective Ken doll was enough, and frankly I don’t
blame Barbie for dumping him a few years ago.
In retrospect, I realize how genius Barbie’s marketing was,
and I guess still is. For the most part, every single Barbie Doll
is exactly the same: blond and skinny with perpetually pointed
toes. But, my sister and I could not visit a toy store without
pining for the latest doll.
When we did get a new doll, we would take her home and immediately
strip all her clothes off, put on new ones, and she would join
the 20 other mini women who looked just like her and who all lived
in the Barbie Dream House.
For Mary at the first Christmas, there may not have been room
in the inn. But, there is always room in the Dream House.
|
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