Having been born in December in the heart of the Great Depression (which, of course, had no heart), I learned early not to expect much in terms of celebration, especially when Christmas would be forever just three days away.
I was lucky to get ice cream and cake and a movie like millions of other Americans at that time. One either got it on one’s birthday or on the major holiday. I have to say now, unlike many, my family always ate well and had clothing quite adequate to our needs, and my father was never out of work, always in a position that measured up to his college education. But there were few extravagances. One birthday, I got a book from my father. I still have it, and it still has its price tag reading 95 cents.
As I grew into adulthood, there were major exceptions on special anniversaries – hitting 21 and then 50 and, of course, 80, all provided by loved ones who at least thought it was best to honor these landmarks or face a similar fate or worse but mainly to thank me for a variety of material attentiveness I always missed when I was their age.
That’s being said, believe me, without malice of any sort toward them nor their mother, who made certain nobody forgot what we owed each other even if it was a card that merely declared our love for the recipient and an expression of delight that we still were all together. As the years rolled along, it was the prospect of an additional telephone call that kept me alert and sometimes up late, frequently with the Happy Birthday song performed by the well-wisher.
Over the weeks ahead of Dec. 22 this year, however, I received several packages much to my surprise and obviously not the prepaid card to a restaurant or movie theater that frequently is what you give the man who has everything. I don’t, but it’s nice to pretend you do rather than sulk about it. Besides, I like the cards.
Well, I happily stacked up the packages in a safe place, eagerly anticipating the morning I would open them. I didn’t even check the return addresses to see who had been so thoughtful. One of the packages came in a priority box from the U.S. Postal Service. “Those are expensive,” I told myself. Another was in a book bag, and I love books, and a third was a large cardboard sent high cost delivery from UPS.
The morning came and I was presented with my bowl of cereal and orange juice and my boxes and a box cutter to open them. I ripped open the book bag and found a well-packaged long box that wasn’t a book. It was a special television remote control from Comcast that permits one to ask for a channel or program without pushing the buttons. Everyone who has arthritis or otherwise mangled or missing fingers gets one, I guess. I don’t suffer from such afflictions, but they sent me one anyway because I buy everything else they peddle in an effort to convince myself and friends that I belong in the 21st century.
The contents of the priority box held some potential. I was not small and it also had tissue paper surrounding two silver packages that turned out to contain three quarters of a pound of exotic coffee each. In it was a card from my financial advisers (yeah, I know how pompous that sounds, but don’t be fooled) with a card that said “Happy Holidays” but clearly was not recognizing my birthday. How nice, but I don’t drink coffee. In fact, I never have had a cup in my life.
I knew the big box had come from my youngest son, who calls me often to see how I am, a call I find more disturbingly anticipatory as I age. I think he needs money. At any rate, underneath all the packing was a fancy box from one of the elite men’s’ stores. “Finally,” I said to myself, “a true gift.”
I lifted out a pair of cotton pajamas that were two sizes too big. “Not even silk,” I murmured ungraciously. He called a little later, enthusiastically asking how I like them. “Great,” I replied, not telling him I sleep in a T-shirt and cheap lounge pants from Costco.
We December depression babies know how to react to such things.
Dan Thomasson is an op-ed columnist for Tribune News Service and a former vice president of Scripps Howard Newspapers. Readers may send him email at: thomassondan@aol.com.
