Wrapping

This time of year some very pretty packages begin to show up under the Christmas tree at my house.  Not necessarily big, or expensive or in great quantity, but very pretty.  Wrapped with love.  And with colorful paper and ribbons and bows and all sorts of little decorative touches.  And each labeled with a from and a to.

I like to survey the pile every once in a while to see what says it’s to me.  What could it be?  I already know what is in the packages marked from me.  I always buy the presents I give out myself.  My wife would do the shopping for me, but I like to do it myself.  And I usually find some off the wall kind of thing to give that no-one else would think of.  And maybe no-one really wants!

Everyone knows which ones are from me.  They can tell just by the look of them.  I like to use the same pretty paper, ribbons and bows that everyone else uses.  No hints there.  But it seems that somehow the gifts that I wrap aren’t as pretty as what someone else might be able to do with them.  

For some reason I just can’t get the corners tight.  Or the tape straight.  I do ok with making bows, but it’s better if I use a premade one.  Somehow my wrapping jobs always look like a rumpled shirt fresh out of the dryer.  Wrinkles.  Not crisp.  I hate to say messy, but…

I try really hard, and have certainly had many opportunities to practice over the years.  But they always turn out the same.  Maybe if I had a real dedicated wrapping station.  I usually find myself either sitting, or laying, on the floor trying to do the job.  The scissors and tape and ribbons and bows just out of reach.

It used to be that you could go to a store and the sales people would wrap your purchase.  Or the store might have a wrapping center for customers where a nice lady would make your box beautiful.  Maybe a little plain if they use store logo paper, but still pretty.  And neat.  But they always had paper, scissors, tape and ribbon strategically located, and stood at a tall desk while they wrapped.  Many small shops in Europe still do this, even if it’s July and you bought a pair of socks.

Maybe it’s my personality.  I know what to do to make my packages pretty, I just can’t do it.  I’m always in a rush because I’ve procrastinated, or because I just have a lot of other half finished things I need to get to three quarters finished.  And I don’t really enjoy wrapping.  I like the decorating part better.  I can exercise my unique tastes and creativity.

Beyond the look of the presents I wrap, recipients always look forward to the tags I make.  It’s just a premade stick on thing.  Images of Santa, or trees, or reindeer.  Christmas related stuff.  Commercial Christmas.  It’s what I write in the to and from boxes that they look for.

Everyone has made a list of things they want to receive so there aren’t a lot of surprises.  Sometimes the gift is wrapped deceptively.  Like a pair of gloves in a shoe box.  So I always like to offer some kind of hint as to what might really be inside the paper.  The tag will read to Susie, or whoever, from the hint.

If someone is getting snow boots I might say they are form The Eskimo.  The hints aren’t always directly related.  The recipient might have to think a little.  But the tradition here is that when someone opens a gift from me there is no just ripping the paper off.  They have to hold it.  Listen to it.  Shake it.  Then read the hint.  And ponder.  And then they have to announce to all around what they think is in the package.

Sometimes they are right.  Sometimes they cannot put the hint with the reality.  I think they all enjoy this little game.  I know I do.  But best of all is that they always seem to appreciate the gift.  No matter how trivial or silly.

In spite of the messy presentation, they know the gifts are given with great consideration for who they are, and filled with love.  And love is what Christmas is really about.

Thats part of my story.  What’s yours?

Nicknames

You would think that one’s name is a pretty good identifier.  In the old days, when there weren’t that many people around, we only needed one name.  You were John, or Sally.  Then there were more people, and not so many more names, so all of a sudden there were two Sallies in the town.  Which was which?  We got last names.  Sally number one, whose father was a baker became Sally Baker.  And Sally number two, whose father was a farmer, became Sally Farmer.  You get the idea.  And it went from there.

Today, if you are Joe J. Smith, people know who you are.  Not that you’re famous because you are Joe J. Smith, but because they know you by your name.  It’s your label.  That is, it’s your formal identification.

But these labels are often customized.  These custom versions of a name provide a more personal picture of who you are.  Nicknames are sometimes given in love, but sometimes with disdain.  Lets focus on love.  And if you must know, as I child I was given a nickname by a group of dolts at school that proved to be a great nuisance.

My brother’s name is James, but we all called him Jamie until he went to middle school.  Then he was James.  My oldest daughter is Lindsay.  We call her Lindz.  My other daughter is Hannah.  I call her HB.  Or just H.  All loving nicknames.

Sometimes people go by a middle name.  My nephew does.  He’s Lake.  Or, people may prefer a derivative.  Katherine is Kate. 

Knowing all of this about names didn’t help me the other day.  I was told that Charlie would be there to help me move a big piece of furniture I bought for my antique store.  Great I thought.  Save my back and shoulder and let Charlie do the manhandling.  Big, strong Charlie.

Never occurred to me that Charlie was Charlotte!  And this Charlotte would never be mistaken for a man.  She had a good grip in her handshake so I was relieved a little.  What she lacked in muscle power she had in helpfulness and determination.  Between the two of us we managed to get the thing out of the store, down the sidewalk and into my truck.

In the end it didn’t matter that Charlotte was a girl.  And for the most part it doesn’t matter what our names are.  They mean something to those giving them, and we accept and adapt.  It’s our name.  Or change it.

We all answer to something.  And nicknames can be fun.  Have you ever heard the he-man’s sweet wife call him bubby bear?  Love.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?

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