I’ve long assumed that most families have weird holiday traditions.
Like my friend who places a spaceman on top of her Christmas tree, instead of an angel or a star. That’s kind of weird. Not that I have a problem with it, or anything. In fact, I’ll even go so far as to say that I like a little weirdness with the holidays, which are so steeped in ritual and convention that these occasional detours from the norm can actually be quite refreshing.
Having said all that, I guess it’s time to admit that I’ve never expressed anything but derision for my family’s weirdest holiday tradition.
I’m talking about my father’s tradition of giving us what we’ve all come to refer to as “lay-around presents.” What, you ask, is a lay-around present?
Well, it’s perfectly simple. A lay-around present isn’t wrapped, and it isn’t placed under the tree. It’s something that’s just laying around the house, in plain sight. The idea is that the recipient will come downstairs on Christmas morning, see this gift, and know instantly that it is for them.
And why will they know this? Well, because the gift is so perfect, that’s why. It’s so perfect, there’s just no way in the world they could mistake it for anything other than their lay-around present.
This tradition has always struck me as completely bizarre, and I think it’s because it’s not something my sisters and I grew up with. Rather, my father decided to institute it about 10 years ago. From the get go, I was opposed. “What a dumb idea,” I said. But my father was undeterred.
“You’ll love it,” he vowed. “You’ll see your gift, and you’ll know instinctively that it’s for you! It won’t even have your name on it — it won’t need to, because you’ll just know!” As far as I was concerned, this was just a lot of crazy talk, and I made my feelings known.
On that Christmas morning, I couldn’t find my lay-around present. Of course, I refused to look for it, since the whole thing was ridiculous, anyway.
“I can’t find it,” I said, while sitting on the couch reading a magazine.
”You need to go look for it,” my dad said.
“I thought it was supposed to be obvious,” I countered. “I thought I would just see it, and know it was for me.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you what it is,” my father said. “That isn’t what this is all about.”
“What is this all about?” I asked, but never got a satisfactory answer.
Unable to find my lay-around present, I started pointing at things and asking if they were for me. (This has since become a common tactic for people who can’t find their lay-around present. They just start pointing to stuff they like and asking if it’s theirs.) “Is that clock my lay-around present?”
“No, it is not.”
“Is the microwave my lay-around present?”
“No, of course not! Go look for your lay-around present!”
Finally, someone directed me to a weathered old mallet lying on the kitchen counter. “That’s my lay-around present?” I said. “Why in the world would you give me a mallet?”
“It’s for beating chicken!” my father said. “It’s perfect! You were just telling us you’ve been using a hammer to beat chicken breasts! Now you have a mallet for beating chicken!”
“Huh,” I said. “OK.”
I don’t remember what my lay-around gift was the following year, but I couldn’t find it. So the year after that, my father decided to make things a little easier. He got me a 12-pack of Sam Adams, and strategically placed the bottles all over the house. I found the first one on the staircase on my way down to breakfast. “This must be for me,” I thought, and picked it up. Then I wandered around collecting bottles from the fireplace mantle, the buffet, the windowsill.
This Christmas, I had similar luck with my lay-around present. I was sick, and I think my family took pity on me. “We already found your lay-around present,” my sisters said, when I sat down on the couch on the living room.
“Oh, the lay-around present,” I sighed, because I wasn’t sure I had the energy to argue about my lay-around present, much less get up and go look for it.
“Look at the end table,” my sisters said, and I swiveled around.
There it was, my lay-around present. I reached over, picked it up, and examined it. It was a Boston Celtics water glass, listing every championship except the most recent one, won last year. I love the Boston Celtics, and there was no doubt in my mind that this glass was for me. For once, my dad had gotten it right. He’d found the perfect gift.
Anyway, the holidays are over, and soon it will be difficult to recall much of what happened on Christmas morning. One year will blur into the next; our memories of specific Christmases will grow fuzzy and indistinct, and we’ll be left with that warm feeling that comes from being with family and friends at a special time of year.
But try as I might, I’m not sure I’ll ever forget about my family’s weirdest holiday tradition. It was easy for me to find my lay-around present this year, and so I expect to have to search high and low for it next year. Or maybe I’ll just sit on the couch and complain about how ridiculous the whole thing is. That’s become a tradition, too.
Foss Forward makes a weekly appearance in print, in The Gazette’s Saturday Lifestyles section.
