Gift horse

At this time of year, I think of Christmases past. Do you remember when your mom or dad said things like “Never look a gift horse in the mouth?” I do. When I was a kid, I figured I didn’t have a problem since there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in H E double hockey sticks someone would buy me a horse. The truth is, I did understand each word, but I just—obviously—didn’t get it. I did, indeed, check to see if any gift I received measured up to my standards. Now don’t go shaking your heads as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. There was a difference between a Betsy Wetsy Doll and a Tiny Tears Doll. If a kid asked for Mini Bricks they sure as shootin’ didn’t want a cylinder filled with Sta-Lox. I really don’t believe I’m the only kid who checked the gift horse out.

The very first time I can recall checking the horse’s mouth, I might have been about 12. My mom’s oldest sister was my godmother. Aunt Lucy wasn’t a soft and or a cuddly person. She had a very difficult life. But the way I understood it, as kids often do understand things, her responsibility to me was to make sure I was brought up right, religion- wise, if anything happened to my parents. Oh, and as my godmother, Aunt Lucy had the privilege of buying me a special gift for my birthday and at Christmas. One extra gift, not from my immediate family or my best friend. She was supposed to buy things such as a gold necklace with a crucifix or the little white prayer book or the rosary or a statue of my patron saint. But I don’t remember ever receiving anything like that from Aunt Lucy. Nothing religious, at any rate. Aunt Lucy was a talented seamstress and an amazing cook. I didn’t really mind that she didn’t see the importance of the extra gift, except when one of my siblings scored big from their godparent. Auntie could always be counted upon for a great meal whenever we visited, and she knew how to sew up a storm. So, my point is—and I do have one—the gift horse thing happened one Christmas, while visiting my grandfather. Aunt Lucy, like a good Italian oldest daughter, lived across the street from him. Well, there it was, in Grandpa’s front room—a wrapped gift, addressed to me from my godmother. I couldn’t have been any more excited than I was at that moment. The package was far too big to be any of the standard godparent gifts, so it had to be something special. I set that bar rather high. I was too old for Betsy Wetsy and not at all interested in Sta-Lox.

I remember the smile on my auntie’s face when I opened that package. My excitement dissolved the moment I saw the gift. A beige handbag? What self-respecting, pre-teen girl wanted a handbag that had most obviously been pre-adored? I know I didn’t smile back. I hardly raised my head. I thought it must have been some kind of joke and was very afraid it wasn’t. Yeah, Auntie was smiling because it was a joke of some kind. Perhaps, I thought, there was cash inside the bag. She put cotton wool inside some ravioli, once, as a joke. This was that kind of joke. As I opened the bag and rummaged through the empty pockets, I realized it wasn’t a joke. This was a special gift from my godmother. What I didn’t realize was by looking through the pockets, I was doing exactly what my parents had warned me not to do. I was looking the gift horse in the mouth. I didn’t know it at the time but I had the gut feeling I wasn’t doing the right thing by looking for something more. More than 50 years have passed since that Christmas. I still blush when I think about it. I wish I’d been more gracious. I wish I’d enjoyed the moment of giving and of receiving. Fifty-plus years ago, I wish I hadn’t looked the gift horse in the mouth.

Here we are, close to the biggest gift-giving time of year for many people. Anticipation of the giving and the receiving shouldn’t be overwhelming. In the years since that gift horse moment, I have, once or twice, wondered about a gift received, and gently reminded myself, “The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.” And I’m comfortable with that.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca