Every daughter marvels at her mother’s skill and grace at a young age. We examine each movement with an unblinking awe and desire that we, too, might someday possess such effortless dexterity. Some watch as she applies her makeup, some stare as she presses the dough beneath the rolling pin, perhaps some sit with their faces too close to the parchment as she pens a long letter.
My mother does not wear makeup. She burnt the peanut butter and chocolate cookies I brought to class in the third grade, and her longest letter is limited to the dimensions of a holiday card. Her daily apparel consists of overalls, flannel, a turtleneck, or a goosedown vest, sometimes all at once–not exactly the epitome of elegance. But every Christmas, I would sprawl out on the master bedroom floor, my elbows propping up my chin, calves swinging about behind me, my eyes riveted on my mother wrapping gifts. Rolls of wrapping paper stretched across the carpet, scraps thrown here and there, crumpled and re-crumpled tissue paper scattered throughout. It was a tornado, but in the eye of it knelt my mother with a nearly-finished, perfectly wrapped present, calm and untouched by the storm. She folded and creased the wrapping paper with her thumb, hard. Extra paper was shaved off with a small knife; she never used scissors. The excess would not go to waste. Somehow every inch of the tube was used, if not this year, then the next year. “Ribbon or bow?” she would ask.
“Ribbon!” I’d insist. Ribbon was more fun to watch, and she let me curl the ends with the knife as long as I was careful. Bows were pre-packaged (and thus boring), with little stickers on the bottoms made of ineffective adhesive. I could never tell whether the problem lay with the weak adhesive, or the big staple in the middle holding the bow together. Maybe the staple somehow obstructed the adhesive from maintaining good contact with the wrapping? My mother always secured these bows with Scotch tape.
“What color ribbon?” Well, it had to be something that matched the paper of course. My mother never bought the thick, high-quality wrapping paper that came in solid colors. The Scrooge inside her picked out thin, printed paper with tacky Santas and multi-colored squiggles, though preferably, the print would be religiously unaffiliated so she could use the same paper for her Jewish acquaintances. (Same went for the Christmas cards–always Happy Holidays!, never Merry Christmas!) So the ribbon had to go along with the motif. And it had to be the ridged kind, not the shiny satin kind because that didn’t curl as nicely.
Now came the best part: how to adorn the present with the ribbon. Criss-cross around it? Just one piece wound diagonally? Perhaps big, Shirley Temple curlicues. A simple breast-cancer-sign twist? Here I let my mother work her creative magic without offering input, content to watch a master perform.
My fascination with this art led me to work at the free gift-wrapping counter at Chesterfield Mall during the holiday seasons. This is by far the most satisfying job I have ever held. It was completely voluntary; I never saw a dime, but my heart was filled with the thickest wrapping paper one could find, and enough spools of ribbon to hang all the prostitutes in Tokyo. I worked next to 60-year-old women with names like Martha and Mabel, prompting each customer to eye me with skepticism. Would this scrawny little 15-year-old do a good job on my precious token of generosity? Surely the grandmas had more experience. And they did, but I was fast, and liked to chat while wrapping. Men looking to get in and out of the mall swarmed towards my line, each eternally grateful as I return their newly-wrapped gifts. One fellow was so overwhelmed with relief and appreciation that he bought me a large box of assorted chocolates as a thank you while I finished wrapping his 15th box.
As my brother and I grow older, my folks put less and less effort into the affair of Christmas, as evidenced by the Stepford tree and the increasingly poor quality of presents. I don’t think we even have stockings this year. My mother’s gifts are all half-assed, with brown cardboard showing through the wrapping paper where she couldn’t be bothered to measure accurately. No “to” and “from” labels, no ribbons or bows. BAGS, instead of boxes. There is nothing lazier than a bag with crappy tissue paper peeping out of the top; it says you don’t even care about preserving the element of surprise.
I found some uncharacteristically thick wrapping paper in my mother’s closet yesterday. I rummaged around for a good knife and a piece of purple ribbon, which I cut at a slant, as ribbon should be cut. Dimensions were guesstimated slowly, paper was stretched to become a second skin around the box. And I creased until my thumb hurt, until each corner came to a perfect point, until I felt the Christmas spirit spill from my fingers into the carpet my elbows once pressed against.
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