My brother recently posted several very old photos to his Facebook account; they brought back a lot of memories.
In one, all three siblings mugged in front of a line-up of Christmas booty after a long morning of unwrapping presents.
I remember it as a frustratingly protracted experience - not because we had a room full of gifts, but because we were made to wait our turn. With five of us (including the adults), it took hours, shaking and squeezing one single present at a time that you weren’t allowed to unwrap until everyone else had opened one before you.
I’m not pointing fingers, but some in the family were dead slow at it.
That snapshot chronicled the itchy (possibly fiberglass-covered) furniture, and the grass-green carpet in the living room. Though a succession of couches came and went, that carpet was still there when the house sold last year.
Among the board games and socks, nestled betwixt my sister (clutching a koala bear), and myself (in a polyester wide-lapel shirt), there was a wood-patterned vinyl case, about the size of an old 78 record player. It was mine, and it wasn’t a phonograph.
It was an art-kit containing medium-point markers, a sampler of watercolor paints, plastic brushes, various shades of grey chalk, pencils, and a sketch pad.
Sounds like a pretty good gift, doesn’t it? It sorta wasn’t. The markers, if not already dried out, would expire at first use. Always. (I received several kits over the years; I suspect they were all purchased from the same catalog.)
How can I equate this experience to you? It was like an un-kept cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die promise, or an entire box of chocolates with only the tart rubbery jelly centers. Those markers held so much potential, but were always a huge lump of coal.
Ahh, you say – Fractious Child must learn to deal with the impermanence of material things, and put minor upsets into perspective. There’s an instructive Life-Lesson here about the bigger picture; mental heath and future well-being, assured.
But, no. That’s not how it went down.
I was emotionally scarred in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine. It was a suitcase of crushing disappointment, wrapped by Santa’s very own elves.
(Hello. My name is Dawn. I am covetous of the Sharpies, and they are many.)
I was thrilled to have markers in my Christmas stocking this year from my sister, who knows my pain. She had inspected the state of felt-tips in the house last November, noted they were fuzzy and faded – and new I’d need an intervention if they weren’t replaced soon.
I’ve got slick retractable Sharpies; thin ones, thick, chiseled, double ended, minis - 3 colors of highlighters – rainbow assortments, and pastels. One even writes white. White!
I sign thank you notes in Susan B. Komen limited-edition pink. I have a pale silver pen with no practical application whatsoever, but I use it purposefully to challenge recipients with the difficulty of reading what I put down.
Think of it as “art therapy”. I certainly do.
