Ferris Robinson
Over a recent lunch with friends, we all reminisced over Christmases past. Instead of cozy Hallmark memories, we recalled our most disappointing gifts.
One friend shared her trauma about the year Santa lost all the Christmas presents. By the time the jolly ole man located them, she had already been scarred for life. But adding insult to injury, her big present, a My Little Pony Dream Castle, turned out to be some kind of a lame storage case instead of the real deal.
Another friend told stories of various less-than-perfect Christmases, one of which reportedly began by Mr. and Mrs. Clause getting so frustrated by trying to put complicated toys together that they just hurled the various instructions and pieces into the already-roaring fireplace. And another told the story of the little wooden play kitchen she outfitted for her two children. They told everyone at church their favorite present was the “bar” their mother made for them.
I recollected the year I wanted white go-go boots, with pointed toes and zippers up the back. Everyone had them, and they were all over the three TV channels we had. They made all the dancers on “Laugh-In” even more adorable, and I thought they were the answer to my pre-teen gawkiness.
I should have asked for small feet to go in the little boots. On Christmas morning, my sister and I received identical boxes, and I knew that was a good sign since she had asked for the same thing. We always got matching outfits, and not just at Christmas. We dressed alike at Easter and on the first day of school and on trips. My sister was a little blue-eyed blonde, and looked adorable in anything. She could make horizontal orange and green striped shifts look appealing while I looked like some kind of garish sign. Don’t even start on the beret.
I watched her peel back the glossy red paper, ecstatic when she opened the lid of her box and pulled out the smug little boot. Go-go dancers in miniskirts were on the cover of the box, and I knew I would look exactly like them within minutes! My sister tried them on and they fit perfectly. I could barely contain myself as I ripped open the wrapping paper on the box that held pure magic for me. That Christmas morning was the first time I was thrilled to be dressed exactly like my little sister.
Except that they weren’t the same. She looked like Goldie Hawn as she pranced around in her chic little boots, and I stared glumly at mine. They had big squared-off toes and were scalloped at the top. A big leather bow was at the top of the zipper, which was at the side, not down the back. Even the white color looked off; a bluish dingy grey – nothing like the snappy white little boots my sister had on her little feet.
“Honey, this is all they had in your size,” my grandmother said as my sister did the pony around the living room. Like that would help.
The Robinsons have a few tales, most before my time. But one that stands out is the year of the microwave oven. A few decades ago, my late father-in-law insisted his wife cook the enormous turkey (enough for roughly 30 people) in the new microwave she just unwrapped. After a great deal of arguing, she stuffed the pale pink bird in the new gadget and turned it on. After a few hours, they checked the raw bird, and refilled their glasses, repeating this same process every couple of hours. By the time December 26 was drawing near, family members lay passed out on couches and children had long since gone to bed hungry.
I’m on other side now. I’m in charge of cooking the Christmas turkey, and buying the perfect gift. And I’m telling you, it’s hard to find just the right size. Much less two of them.
(Ferris Robinson can be contacted at ferrisrobinson@gmail.com. www.ferrisrobinson.com)