The Best Christmas Present Ever

It was either a spectacular joke or potentially a gift that my precious Kentucky grandbabies pooled together with hard-earned cash to send to their YaYa for Christmas. Either way, I was in quite a pickle when the time came to thank them for the necklace I’d just unwrapped. It was not made of macaroni. Or pipecleaners. Nor was it last year’s dried out Play-Doh formed in childish delight into something once resembling a heart. 

I took a picture of the two-pound monstrosity and sent it to my daughter. “Look what Lee and Jess sent me in their Christmas box,” I texted. “I don’t know what to think. What do I tell them when we Facetime later this morning?”

Her carefully worded answer was classic.

“Well,” she wrote, taking her time before texting back, “you could try something like, “It’s really sparkly!” Her own grandmother would be proud.

“How very Mam-ish of you,” I replied.

My mother-in-law, who we call “Mam,” turned 91 last month. While she’s been accused of having lost her filter, she clearly has not lost her mind or her health. Every time I hear what a good checkup she’s just had at the doctor’s office, I remind her that I’ve made her the beneficiary of my will. She loves that.

The truth is, she does know how to be tactful. For example, whenever she’s in the presence of a beaming young mother holding her not-yet-attractive newborn, Mam knows just the right thing to say. “My, what a healthy looking baby!” she gushes. It works every time.

My daughter’s carefully worded appreciation was clearly genetic. On her father’s side.

I looked all over the back of the cardboard holding this lime green work of art, but there were no Christmas messages or explanations. Not even any directions or health warnings about whatever questionable content the Chinese jewelry was made of. I can’t begin to tell you how confused I was by the gift I held. Semi-circular and connected nose to tail with heavy links of faux-gold, I was the proud owner of a bold statement piece certain to set off metal detectors if I dared wearing it through airport security. For once, I wouldn’t mind relinquishing a prized possession into the hands of the TSA. After all, they asked for it.

My computer screen lit up. It was time. I had to tread carefully. With my scrambled intuition on high alert, I pasted a delighted look on my face and answered the Christmas call from my son. He was alone in his office. Laughing. It didn’t take long to sort out the truth while the rest of his family remained in the other room, unaware.

“Hold on,” I told him, feeling my shoulders relax as I exhaled. “I’ll go put it on.”

I came back with the giant salamander hanging heavily across my ample bosom. The fake rhinestones covering its body were blinding, its fiery red eyes glowed demonic.

"Hang on a sec," my son sputtered, nearly asphyxiated by his own howls of laughter. I drummed my fingers on the desk and waited while he gathered his composure. There’s nothing better than being the butt of a good joke. I’ve heard.

At last, he spit out the story of his wife’s discovery of the priceless piece on Temu and how she couldn’t stop laughing over the computer image.

“Who can we give it to?” she giggled, clicking the “Purchase” button on her smart phone. “I know! Your mom!” she shrieked. “And we won’t include any explanation!”

I’d been set up.

Whatever happened next, she had it coming.

Lee shielded the screen on his laptop while he carried it into the dining room and called the family to gather around for our Christmas phone call. I sat demurely in front of the camera on my computer, saying nothing, wearing that hideous costume jewelry around my neck and trying to keep my back straight under its weight. Good thing I’ve been going to Pilates for two years. A strong core is key.

The grandchildren gathered, distracted by the gifts I’d sent still waiting to be opened on their end of the continent, oblivious of my attire. Jessica was the last to join the party, settling in with her famous smile and good nature, acting like nothing untoward was happening on the screen in front of her . . . until . . .

Her eyes bugged out and she buried her face in her hands in hysterics.

It worked. She was ashamed of herself.

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s the funniest thing I ever saw!”

It didn’t work. She was unrepentant.

Her Southern accent kicked in like she was channeling Paula Deene, and the story of her proud purchase spilled out all over their dining room table. She knew what she’d done. She knew who to target. She knew the moment I saw it I’d be paralyzed somewhere between guilt and humiliation—guilt about hating it and humiliation if I had to wear it in public and pretend I loved it just like I’ve done with every macaroni necklace I’ve ever owned.

It was the best Christmas present she’d ever given herself. It reminded me of the fairy tale about the princess who had to prove she was royal by sleeping on a tower of mattresses that, unknown to her, concealed a princess-brutalizing green pea beneath them all. Another classic set up. Only in my case, a woman who is a survivor of Southern ancestors, no matter how much I try to break free from my people pleasing roots, all it takes is a tacky gift from relatives and suddenly I’m lying again about how much I love it. Western born, I am still a Southern girl deep down.

Bless my little pea-pickin’ heart.

When the call and the laughter ended, I took a screen shot of myself wearing the heavy Asian idol and sent it to my daughter with this short message:

“It was a joke.”

She wrote back with the same sense of relief I felt at not being forced to Mam-ify the whole thing.

“Thank God,” she texted.

So now it sits here on my desk, wrapping my little stuffed elephant in its gaudy embrace. I’d feel sorry for him but the look of betrayal in his eyes makes me laugh.

I don’t know what he’s got to complain about. At least it’s not made of macaroni.

Peek-A-Boo

The neighbors have a new dog.  A mid-sized brindle who loves to chase the chickens all around the pasture, rounding them up like runaway peas on a toddler’s plate. She’s having a ball. Them, not so much. They seem confused by the interloper in their backyard. After all, they were there first. By all rights, they should be chasing the dog, but they haven’t figured that out yet.

I’ve watched this track and field phenomena play out most afternoons since the pup, Sadie, arrived, and I have some thoughts about it. And, just to be clear, I am not stalking my neighbors. It’s just that my desk faces a window that looks out at their pasture. I’m a curious onlooker. A city girl who always wanted to be a farmer. It’s been educational. For example, from everything I can see from my padded office chair, I’ve learned that I’m way too lazy to follow my country girl dreams.

The first time I noticed Sadie living out her cattle dog instincts, I thought she escaped the backyard and had gone rogue in the family’s pasture. Standing on my tippy toes at the dining room window—still not stalking, just concerned—I watched with alarm to see if she was sorting through the feathered herd in search of just the right snack. I’ve heard of family dogs going dark like that. One minute they’re scarfing up Kibble ‘n Bits, and the next they’ve got soggy feathers in their teeth. Eeww.

But this happy herder didn’t plan on any takedowns. Whether the chickens outran her or she simply respects social distancing rules, no animals were harmed in the making of this production.  I think she just gets her kicks watching the troops run away while she barks orders at them like a Marine corporal at bootcamp.

I don’t know but I’ve been told

Chickens think that dogs are trolls

I don’t know but it’s been said

Happy dogs are chicken fed

Which, of course, is just good-natured heckling between farm animals. I know this because I never once saw a feather fly during the relays across the street while I was definitely not stalking anyone from my office or dining room windows.

It’s just good clean fun going on over there. But it really made me wonder about the motivation of chickens. I haven’t actually counted the flock, but a random guess puts it at roughly eleven, give or take. Because you can’t be that accurate without binoculars which, of course, would be ridiculous and certainly proof of stalking.

Let’s just round that number up. There are, perhaps, a dozen full grown chickens in the pasture across the street and only one Sadie. That means the chickens outnumber the cattle dog twelve to one. Why haven’t they unionized? Why are they letting one furry individual bully them like that, scattering them across the pasture like a bowling alley strike? After all, there’s strength in numbers. All they have to do is link wings and take a stand. Like a wall of bowling pins.

Oh. Sadie would probably love that.

I’ve spent a lot of time observing farm animals in the three years since I arrived at the Brady Rehabilitation Ranch, much of it from the other side of my house which backs up to my daughter’s pasture. And I’ve come to this conclusion: animals are much like people but with better instincts. They know their place in the world, and they don’t demand a different position in life than the one they were assigned at birth. Once a chicken, always a chicken. Once a pig, always a pig. Once a sheep, always . . . you get my drift. And when a new resident shows up in the pasture, first there is confrontation and then there is acceptance.

Life could be so much simpler for humans if we learned from our feathered friends. Just let chickens be chicken and let dogs rule the roost. So to speak.

Well, I never claimed to be a philosopher. I’m just a writer surrounded by other people’s pastures trying to make sense out of life. I’m honestly astonished at the variety of animals which can inhabit a quarter acre piece of land without killing one another. They tolerate each other’s differences, find their pecking order, run away when they don’t feel like fighting, and manage to find enough to eat without turning on each other.

Like I said, people could learn a lot from chickens. You don’t even need to use binoculars. Which I definitely don't have.

With gratitude to Howard J for permission to use the hysterical caricature seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: InkTober Day 5: Binoculars | That’s a northern peekaboo bird… | Flickr