Present for mom

“Hemp”, I thought. Hemp is plenty strong, there’s no way she’ll be able to destroy this cargo tote bag. Not only is it already pretty tough by design (I have 3 myself), I deliberately ordered a stronger fabric for the side panels and straps. So, two side panels of black hemp and a center in blue fabric, recycled polyester. Well then I guess the gift is ‘green’ too. I picked out the liner inside be brilliant orange. “Why that color? That doesn’t match the outside!” She’ll say. And I know this. It not only clashes with the outside but it is a color that nothing she puts into that bag will have. So that way she can find her shit and nothing going into the bag will fall into the dark abyss that makes her sound so frustrated when its time to locate something. One fat credit card charge later, Timbuk2 is now in charge of mom’s Christmas present. She can stuff her shoes and lunch into it, drag it through the grocery store, throw it around in her car and it will hold up. Good. She will have something durable to use instead of that stupid knitted bag that’s been falling apart for years and which I swear is magic as everything ever entered into it can never be recovered. Finally, mom will be able to carry her belongings in a bag that, while not haute couture, won’t scream “nouveau homeless”.

Wrong.

I think through the expensive and well-intentioned Christmas gifts of years past we’ve given her to meet painfully obvious needs. The warm LLBean coat got returned. The warm slippers still sit in their gift bag in the living room, inches from where she placed them after opening the present last Christmas. Isotoner gloves sat on top of the refrigerator unused, right next to the new tea pot from 3 years ago. The thick terrycloth bathrobe that I got her in 1993 hangs in the closet, ready for me to use when I visit, while the ratty, threadbare thing she always wore-she still wears. When will we learn?

Mom doesn’t want new things that serve her purposes exceptionally well. She doesn’t want to receive the top of the line goods. She doesn’t really take to getting anything, perhaps doesn’t know how to incorporate this sudden possession into her life. She wants to find things. She wants to discover a coat long discarded by the child who grew out of it. She wants to find the sweater that has sat in a drawer and could yet yield a few more wearings. She wants to use her old broken things until they disintegrate beyond recognition. The shoes are worn well beyond the point when her toes poke out wide holes. They are put onto her feet until nothing is left but the foot itself. And that is satisfaction. Knowing that she has squeezed the last bit of usefulness out of an item, whether it be an old coat, shoes, or the teabag she presses for a fourth cup, is what makes her happy. Never mind that the old coat is too thin for a Buffalo winter. Never mind that the shoes no longer protect her feet or provide traction. Never mind that while the second cup of tea may taste better, the fourth is surely too weak. Never mind comfort. The greater comfort is in knowing that every red cent’s worth of use has been gained. When the stuff is used to the point of disintegration, she wins.

When asked for an explanation all she says is “oh, I want to keep it nice!” FOR WHAT? FOR WHOM?

I call her up at work to tell her that a package is coming. “It’s coming from San Francisco.”

“OH! Is it See’s?”

“What? The chocolate?” Apparently, in my various trips through SFO looking for a souvenir, I have created a monster.

I go to See’s Candies online and make her up a custom box – nothing too chewy or hard and heavy on the maple walnut truffles. So, I can stop, now. I guess I knew what she really wanted all along. It's my problem that I haven't been able to bear getting a gift that doesn't try to fix anything.