We’ll be spending New Year’s Eve with an elite and sophisticated crowd, at a small dinner party. Discussing matters of Worldly import, no doubt. Me, as usual—I’ll be trying so hard not to say the wrong thing, that I’ll probably say the wrong thing. But I might say one or two right things, too. So that might help.

Since no one’s drinking, both the cider and conversation should be sparkling. Since no one’s drinking, we’ll have to come up with some things to laugh at that are actually funny. Then again, you’d be surprised how much easier that is when you’re still on Planet Earth.

The evening will be long if we don’t arrange something amusing to do.  Even if you’re elite and sophisticated, you can’t just eat and chat forever, can you? Last year I brought Trivial Pursuit, but got all the answers wrong, even though I’d taken out all the cards that had questions on them I didn’t know. I’ll leave that home.

Instead, I’ve been putting together a box of surefire crowd-pleasers, guaranteed to fill the evening with laughter and mirth. Let’s see, okay…so far I’ve got this travel-size Monopoly game, an ocarina, Mr. Potato Head, and a bunch of those metal-ring puzzles where things are all hooked up like coat hangers. Batting clean up up is an old set of lawn darts that’s mostly complete.

We’re all set.

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During the Holidays I’m always an instant celebrity wherever I go in my traditional Christmas cap—bright red, with snow-white fur—and a tail so long the little ball hangs to my knees. Everybody asks where I got it.

I tell children it’s a magical hat given to me by Santa himself. I tell their parents that I mugged an elf.

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Once again, everything I got for Christmas was something I wanted. That’s because it didn’t matter what was in the box. The gift isn’t what’s in the box, it’s what’s in the heart of the person who gave you the box.

I did get a swell new camera, though.

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The UPS Santa dropped off one of those Harry & David towers of delightful ribbon-adorned boxes—and I think I’ve hit the jackpot. This is the Twelve Days of Christmas! You know, “…partridge in a pear tree.” Really. I just now opened the first box—and it was full of pears!

Now I’m just hoping to find the Gold Rings before the Lords-a-Leaping.

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One year we had no money for a Christmas tree. And on Christmas Eve the lot owner said we could have any tree that was left for nothing. There was one tree that was perfect from the front but totally bald behind. When we found another just like it, we dragged them both home and tied them together and had the most beautiful Christmas tree you ever did see.

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I’m a member of the “Charley Brown Christmas Tree” delivery committee this year. These are small trees we order as a neighborhood, in bulk, then put up in our yards with lights, and it all looks real festive. They’re called “Charley Brown” trees because that’s what you get, even in bulk, for eleven bucks.

So I’m dropping these off one frosty morning at the front doors on my list, and I find that some people come out to complain. The tree we assigned them is too short, too fat, too skinny, too sparse, too uneven, etc.—and anything else over on the truck has to be light-years better than their miserable specimen.

This being the season of forgiveness and good cheer, I manage to locate some in one of my pockets. Then I dutifully bring over several more “Charley Brown”s for them to examine, each of which they poke and prod and fluff until saying they’ll grudgingly accept this one. But, they add with a huff, next year they expect a much better “Charley Brown” for their eleven bucks. I see why spots on this committee are always available.

As the morning develops the trees are getting “Charley”er and “Charley”er. It’s harder to find ones people will take, since we only ordered an exact number. Some folks are nice and take ones less than perfect.

Finally it’s all done. And whatever is lying sad and smooshed at the bottom of the truck bed are the ones the committee members are taking home. We playfully argue over them, grabbing, trading—sometimes offering the additional incentive of branches that have fallen off our trees.

Next year I think I’ll decline the committee. Seasonal forgiveness and good cheer are tough to come by two years running. I’ll still order a tree though.

And when it comes, I won’t complain. I’ll just take whatever they give me.

Unless it’s too short.

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It was a robe. Just the one I wanted. I knew that the moment I opened the present, secretly, four days before Christmas. I held it up, then carefully re-wrapped it.

I had but one gift that year, and now the mystery was gone. And with it flew the enchantment of Christmas morning—and any sparkle from the tinsel, when I saw that robe for the second time.

Some things you can’t put back in the box.

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I once heard a story about a woman who was an International Aid worker in Africa, and was presented with the most exquisite shell by a young tribal boy, for her birthday. When she mentioned that the nearest seashore was at least two days away he replied, “Long walk, part of gift.”

Tonight’s Christmas shopping thought.

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