Christmas Shopping

Christmas Shopping


It's that time of year again.

Everyone is out shopping for that special gift for that special someone.

I have discovered this year that I now have four grandchildren. I'm not sure where they all came from, how they all snuck in the side door, so to speak, but there they are, with their bright young faces looking up at me expectantly. I know the look. It has consumerism written all over it. You can't miss the twinkle in their eyes, and the message is pretty clear, even through the chocolate smear just under the youngest's lower lip.

Kids and Christmas ... just reeks of gifts, I'm afraid. And apparently grandfathers are not exempt from dolling out some ducats from a hard-earned pension to provide a gift-wrapped doodad of unknown origin (presumably China, God forbid) for each of the eagerly awaiting, almost forlorn faces of these popperhead little ones who dangle too closely around your knees.

So I've been out shopping. Target, Walmart, Sears, Sportschek, The Gap, Old Navy, even The Dollar Store. Here some cash, there some cash, everywhere some cash, cash.

And just when you think you're done, you're not done.

There is always that something else that catches your eye. It's a never-ending elevator ride down into an infernal abyss that ends, I suspect, with a crash in the bargain basement of bankruptcy.

This year, my strategy has been to wheel that creaky shopping cart around the toy department, and just pile in a bunch of tools, not any toy in particular, and certainly not a toy that I think grandchild #1 or grandchild #4 will particularly like, just a bunch of toys that I think are cool. Surprisingly, there are more such toys available than I thought possible.

All these new age, little plastic gizmos are wonderfully fascinating. You push a button here or pull a lever there, and the darn things do stuff. They make noise, gear up a bunch of bells and whistles, play tunes, and even talk to you in some remote, seductive voice reminiscent of a woman I once knew in bed. So, who am I to resist?

Before I know it, the shopping cart is full, and I'm whistling, beeping, chirping, barking, roaring, and being told how smart I am, as I careen my way to the checkout.

I wish that I were someone's grandkid. I'd have a ball with all the newfangled, 21^st century toys. I mean we've come a long way, baby ... because my memories of Christmas, the ones that slip down the chimney of reminiscence, call up visions of hoping against hope that you'd get a Mr Potato Head or a bag of marbles or, if luck would have it, a new set of Roy Rogers six guns with a ten-gallon cowboy hat and bespangled vest to match.

Of course, what you got was a pair of flannel pyjamas or in the worst-case scenario that I remember, a clock radio, a rotary-dial, turquoise clock radio.

Who buys a five-year-old a clock radio? I can only guess that there was a great sale on them somewhere, because my sisters got the identical gift. I suppose that overfed elf in the red velvet suit must have had it in his mind that we required some kind of lesson in punctuality. At the time, I wondered if jolly ol' Saint Nick really gave a shit, although I suppose I didn't think of it in that terminology.

Don't think me ungrateful. That clock radio served me well, right into my twenties. Some days, it woke me up when I wanted to wake up, and other days, it woke me up when I had no plans to get up at all. It had a mind of its own, a quality I greatly admire. I'm not sure what Thrift Store it ended up in, but I guess, if I had it today, I could probably sell it on Ebay as an antique and recover a bit of the cash that I've spent on real toys for real kids.

Well, there's the truth of the matter. Back in the 50s, we weren't real kids. We were just something that went well with the two cars in the garage and the yappy cocker spaniel.

Maybe it's these memories that have driven me to make Christmas a time of reaping riches, first for my own kids, and now for the grandkids. The impulse is all wrong, of course, because Christmas should be time of family, friendship, and a celebration of some kind of spiritual reawakening. Well, divorce killed the family fuzzy-all-over feeling, even my best friends have disappeared, and as for the spiritual reawakening, the best that I can offer is a couple of Hallelujahs over a glass of eggnog laced with Jamaican rum.

So, hey, I'm determined to celebrate Christmas by making my grandkids happy with an avalanche of toys. Spend a lot of money ... hope for a little gratitude.

You might be thinking that I'm missing the real spirit of Christmas, but I think I've hit the the proverbial nail on the head. It's not the most profound gig to dole out the presents and then be sent packing to eat a Christmas TV dinner alone in front of Big Bang Theory reruns , but it's what's left, and it'll have to do.