Darn Emerson

"Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only true gift is a portion of thyself to others." Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's all Emerson's fault. He has complicated every Christmas for me since I was 11 years old. Technically, I suppose the blame should go to Wilfred A. Peterson who often quoted Emerson in his "Art of Living Essays." One of these essays would appear each Sunday in the Magazine section of the Milwaukee Journal in the 1950's. Why, you might ask, would an 11 year old girl in the 50's be interested in reading about "The Art Living"? I have no explanation for that other than to say that I think I thought the essays held some key as to how to get our paperboy, Michael Dean, to like me. Or maybe it was because Peterson's essays with all their quotes and homey philosophy marched in lock step of my heroine, the very beautiful and holy Sister Mary Margaret. Sister Mary Margaret loved quotes, especially quotes about character and holiness. She posted them on the bulletin board: "Character is doing this....Holiness is that..." You could even win the Honor Pin if you were voted the student of the week with the most "character-slash-holiness." Maybe I liked those essays because I was just a pre-adolescent and subject to that kind of schmaltz, as my father called it. Or perhaps it was because I was part of the yet to become hippie generation and everything was very serious to us; that is, when we weren't listening to Elvis, Fats Domino, or Peter, Paul, and Mary. (We had very eclectic tastes in music.)

Whatever the reason, every Sunday morning would find me in the living room, listening to the radio blaring "Be Bop A Lu La She's My Baby" or "Blowin' In the Wind," while I searched the newspaper magazine section to find the most recent essay on the "Art of Work," "Art of Loving," or the 'Art of Some other great and noble virtue'. I'd commit every quote that Peterson used in his essays to my memory bank of wisdom. I'd then cut the essays out of the Sunday Magazine section and put them in a special folder in the drawer of one of the blond wood end tables that stood beside our living room couch. If I forgot a quote, I'd just look it up in the folder and find the appropriate words that would help me cope when Mary Dunst got an "A" in geography and I didn't or when Mary Sullivan won the honor pin that week for having the character I apparently lacked . Wilfred A. Peterson's essays with their quotes got me through it all.

It must have been around Christmas time that the editors of the Milwaukee Journal ran Mr. Peterson's essay "The Art of Giving". It was actually a very touching essay. We give gifts of ourselves when we give gifts of words. We give of ourselves when we give gifts of time." Mr. Peterson's thoughts were lovely and seemingly innocuous, that is, until he had to go and wrap up that essay with the quote that would affect my Christmases for the next 40 some years. Peterson wrote, "Emerson said it well, 'Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only true gift is a portion of thyself to others.'"

"Whoa! That's heavy," I must have thought - even though "heavy" might not have been popularized for several years later). But, anyway, whoa!...apologies for gifts? and then with the biblical "thyself" thrown in for good measure? Strong words for impressionable Catholic preteen ears. I understood what Peterson and Emerson meant - and I was hooked. A portion of myself? Does that mean a gift of my words could be a Christmas present? Ahhh.. perfect, especially since I was 11 and didn't have a paper route like Michael Dean. I picked up a pencil and tore paper from my notebook and immediately embarked upon writing a poem. The gift-y poem would be for my father I decided, an adaptation, no less, of that Irving Berlin favorite "The Girl that I Marry," from "Annie Get you Gun." Of course, I could simply change the words to become, "The Man that I Marry." And so I wrote: "He'll be brave and strong and have no fear....blah,da,de, blah..." I finished off with: "a man like my daddy, the boy that I marry will be." Eiiii ! Even at eleven I must have sensed that it was Pepto-Bismol sickening because I turned my attention, the next Christmas, to embroidery. (It's easier to give and take schmaltz when it's in the form of a stitched rose.)

Nevertheless, the habit of giving a gift of myself was locked in. Year after year, Christmas after Christmas, I never felt right unless I could manage to give at least one little home-made gift to at least one someone I loved - a gift the recipient may or may not have ended up appreciating. But no matter. The important thing was, as I had gleaned from Emerson, was that is was gift of myself. Intuitively, I felt that somehow suffering should be involved. (I probably got that from Sister Mary Margaret.)

Through the years, Joanne Fabrics and Michael's Arts and Crafts were only too happy to provide their inventory of yarn, embroidery thread, wood plaques, decoupage goop, macramé rope, sequins, beads, and batting for the do-it-yourself gifts. And if the projects themselves didn't entail enough suffering, I could always count on the fact that Emerson's quote has never seemed to kick in until after Thanksgiving. That of course, means that there are only about 27 days to finish the gift, ensuring the suffering will be manifested outwardly in the form sweat and tears, and when the project involves the sawing of wood, there might even be a little blood.

When macramé was popular, I macraméd hanging plant holders. When crewel was the craft of the year, I stitched huge sunflowers on wide strips of burlap that the hung from spindly twigs that never quite made it to log status. My finest gift, though, was the set of over-sized crocheted potholders that I made for my Aunt and my cousin. These weren't any old potholders. They were actually works of art that involved crocheting and cross stitching and hand sewing. I picked out just the right color olive green yarn that was "in" that year, and I taught myself the afghan crochet stitch for this particular pattern. When the crocheting was done, I cross-stitched the delightful Christmas motif (a bell, a candle, a Christmas tree) on the front. The tree, I remember had ornaments that required 5 different colors of yarn. I had searched in the fabric stores for just the right green plaid quilt material for the back of the pot holder and when the crocheting and cross-stitching was done, I carefully hand sewed the backing on each potholder in the set. I then blocked each pot holder with a wet cloth on the ironing board until the corners were nice and square (a lot of suffering during this part). They turned out to be quite professional looking, I thought, and I was so proud to present them to my Aunt Marion and my cousin Joan that year.

Don't get me wrong. I don't regret all the work that Emerson and tangentially Peterson inadvertently caused me through the years. There's a great deal of satisfaction in giving gifts of yourself to others. It's almost a spiritual, experience to walk into someone's house 20 years later and see a dusty something or other that you made hanging on the wall of their back bedroom, or in a stack of junk in the corner of the garage.

As a matter of fact, just last August, I felt a surge of that emotion when I was standing in my Aunt Marion's kitchen. She was boiling potatoes for her famous hot German potato salad and quickly pulled a crocheted padholder out of the drawer to grab the kettle. It was an old potholder, scorched from years of use. It was oversized and olive green with a perfectly coordinated green plaid backing and a cross-stitched Christmas tree with ornaments in 5 different colors. I felt so gratified, I almost hugged my aunt. "Aunt Marion," I said, "I'm so happy to see that you still have the potholders I made for you after all these years." I was ready for her to put down the kettle of potatoes, come over to hug me, saying how much the potholders meant to her - when out of her mouth, without skipping a beat, came the words, "Oh no Billie, you didn't give me these, I think it was your mother. She probably bought them for me at K-mart or somewhere.

I stood in shocked silence, as if the potato peeler flown up from the counter and had just perforated my heart. I knew it was pointless to try to change Aunt Marion's ninety-year old mind about the origin of the pot-holder at this stage of the game, so I just smiled and sank down into the chair at the kitchen table. Luckily there was German Potato salad to look forward to.

I still like Emerson's quote, I really do, even though I think he really should have added a caveat to his statement. It should have been, "Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only true gift is a gift of thyself to others, especially when the others don't remember it was thou who hath given it. The last part, Sister Mary Margaret would have said, is what makes the gift holy. And so I'll be off. There's a bunch of seashells in my drawer waiting to become a birthday present. . With Emerson's words accented by Sister Mary Margaret philosophy imbedded in my psyche, what choice do I have?