July 22, 2020

One question I always have difficulty answering is when someone asks me what I want for a gift. Yesterday, I turned 66. Every year I make a bit light of the day, because let’s face it. I can’t fit all the candles on my cake, and if I did and lit them, the result would be a fire hazard. This year was no exception. I commented more than once, that hey, just 600 more birthdays and I would be of a fearsome age, indeed.

I’m not certain if anyone caught my little joke. Not unusual. I had a good friend once who, when I quipped that I was so witty, replied that I was half right.

I’ve never liked having to come up with ideas for a “gift list” and the reason why goes back to an incident that happened about ten years into our marriage. My beloved had asked me what I wanted for Christmas. He asked me to give him a list, and so I did. We were both working, but with three children, the times were lean. We’d set a modest budget for gifts for each other because most of the money was for the kids gifts.

I listed all the things I would get for myself, if only I had a few extra dollars. The list was short and simple, and was made of items I really, truly wanted: a couple of cartridges for my typewriter (yes, this was pre-computer and printer days) and some paper for the machine; a couple of pairs of pantyhose; a pair of nice, fluffy warm slippers; and I had a favorite scent in those days, Chloe, which was hellishly expensive. But some brilliant marketer had come out with “imitation” scents, and imitation Chloe could be had for less than five dollars. Of course, I expected David to pick only one or two items.

I was so excited, seeing those small wrapped gifts on Christmas morning! There were more than one or two. I sat down and began to open them….and found only one single thing that had been on my list. He had gotten me a pair of slippers, but the kind with no back of the heel, the kind I have never, ever worn.

I’m not proud of myself for feeling disappointed. I tried not to show it, and I don’t think he ever realized that I was, at the time. I did ask him why he didn’t get me anything I had asked for.

His answer was devastating. He told me that my list wasn’t good enough. That there hadn’t been a decent Christmas gift on it. It took him many years before he realized that what he had said, essentially, was that what I wanted didn’t matter.

And while I know that the other people in my life would not necessarily do what he had done, I still, nonetheless, can’t ever think of anything that might be “good enough” to make the list when I’m asked.

Well, I’m older now. Not really a lot wiser, but I’m working on it. I am a work in progress. I was asked what I wanted for my birthday by our second daughter. I did tell her, I’d think on it, but really, I couldn’t come up with anything “worth while.”

So I thought, when I sat down to compose this week’s essay, I would put together a list of things I would LOVE for my birthday—things that I will never get because they are wildly, and joyously fanciful.

First, of course, I would love this damn virus to just up and vanish. And I would love for the people of the United States to disavow the tribal mentality, and realize they can agree to disagree, and that more binds them together than separates them.

Ah, I can hear my loved ones saying, but what about something just for you?

Well, I have a lovely image in mind—a beautiful king-sized bed with luxurious sheets, a mattress that’s as soft as a cloud, set down in a field of grass and fragrant flowers. A soft, warm very slight breeze would blow, and the best coffee I have ever tasted just there, for the sipping. Needless to say, it would be magnificently comfortable experience, with not a single aching muscle or joint, period.

I would love to step into the kind of shower I’ve often described in my stories—with a “rainfall” shower head high above, and four more shower heads—wands—two on each end of the enclosure. Also, in this hedonistic bathroom would be a Jacuzzi tub that I could easily slip into, and warmed, absorbent towels just waiting to dry me off.

I would love a feast of cheese and crackers, berries and whipped cream—and maybe, just maybe a coffee laced with Bailey’s, or Tia Maria, and I would consume it and overlooking a French vineyard.

But what I really want each year—be it on my birthday or at Christmas—has nothing to do with things or money at all. I want to hear from each of my children and grandchildren—via a call, or just a text—just a few words to let me know they were thinking of me, and that they love me.

I did indeed hear from all but one grandchild. And our second daughter’s greeting put a big smile on my face this year. I may have mentioned, she’s a nurse at a psychiatric hospital. She called and sang Happy Birthday to me (as per family tradition, off key and out of tune). And then she said, “I’m at work. Everyone can hear me. That’s how much I love you.”

Hearing those three words is the best birthday gift, ever!

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury