I’m on record as the world’s worst gift-giver. If giving horrible gifts was an Olympic sport, I would have so many gold medals I could start my own United States mint.
Christmas of 1990 was a particularly Olympic-worthy Christmas. Once again, I outdid myself so much, there was no redemption. It actually started back in the summer.
We were at April’s parents’ house, and we were watching the movie Glory. The movie depicted the Union Army’s 54th regiment during the Civil War. The 54th was comprised of black soldiers who fought for the freedom of all slaves. That’s the most poignant sentence you will read in this essay. From here, the essay descends into an infamous blunder.
One of the stars of Glory was the handsome Denzel Washington. Mr. Washington created a magnificent character named Silas Trip. For his efforts he won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. That’s the most celebratory sentence you will read in this essay. From here, celebrations will be non-existent.
We watched the movie, enjoying every moment. At the end, April said these words: “Wow! That Denzel Washington is a great actor. And he’s good looking too!” To say she was absolutely enthralled with Mr. Washington would be an understatement.
At that exact moment, I realized a fabulous Christmas present for April had fallen into my lap. I didn’t have Denzel’s phone number at the time, nor did he and I have a close relationship. That ruled out arranging a dinner date with Denzel. That automatically ruled out getting Denzel’s autograph on a napkin.
The next day I embarked on a search. My goal was to find a biography of Denzel Washington, April’s new favorite actor. April loves to read and now she loved Denzel Washington. I easily connected the dots.
I was rushing through Walmart and out of the corner of my eye, in the book section, there on the shelf, exactly at eye level, sat Denzel’s biography. Only angels could have done that. Or a store stocker. Either way, it was a sign I had hit gold for April’s 1990 Christmas. All previous Christmas present fiascos starting in 1979 would be forgotten with this spectacular gift, destined by angels.
Christmas morning finally came, and you can imagine my sense of anticipation as April unwrapped her Christmas presents. Sure she seemed somewhat satisfied with the first two gifts she opened. Nothing special, but things she may have wanted. Or not. I’d never been expert at measuring that.
Obviously, I made her save the Denzel Washington gift for last—the spot always reserved for the best Christmas present. That gift position represented something she would never need but would always enjoy forever once her surprise of delight wore off.
Wisely, I had placed it in a box as large as a dog house and added a little weight to it. After all, if you wrap a book by itself, it still looks like a book.
Finally, April pulled that big ol’ box to her chair. A radiant smile as bright as a full moon lit her face. I’m positive my smile was so bright it looked like I had used whitener on my teeth since first grade.
“You must have spent a lot of money on this,” she said, gushing with joy.
In retrospect, that should have been my first clue. But remember my criteria: 1) She didn’t need the biography, 2) and she would be delightfully surprised. As for the last bit of criteria, she would enjoy it until she finished reading it. Since she was an excellent reader, she would finish in a day and a half. Maybe that should have been my second clue?
I smiled through her opening of the box, through her digging through all the excess paper filler, through her reaching down and pulling the book from the box.
When her smile stopped, mine did as well. Surprised? Yes. Delighted? Not so much.
She hoisted the book. “You wrapped up a stocking stuffer as a gift?”
Apparently, yes.
Everything sorta went south after that. All the way to Antarctica. You can’t get more south than that. For another year, my Olympic standing as the worst gift-giver ever remained intact. The silver lining, perhaps?