The Cost of Avoidance

I have a plethora of nieces and nephews scattered around in different states. Not a single one lives close. Logistics being what they are, I don’t know these kids as well as I’d like to. Sure there are a few of the older ones on Facebook and we enjoy that strange and distant virtual closeness that’s so part of today’s culture. But the younger ones—well, our relationship is reduced to those two phone calls a year: “Thanks for the birthday/Christmas gift, Auntie Linda.”  Followed by a brief, somewhat formal conversation. Far from the tight relationship I enjoyed with my own aunts and uncles when I was growing up. Heck, they and my parents were practically interchangeable.  

Anyway I’ve fallen into the habit of getting all these kids the same thing for Christmas. There’s two parts to my gift. The first (and in my humble opinion, the best part) is a signed book from one of the writers conferences I attend earlier in the year. I try to find a book and author who would be best for each of my nieces and nephews at their particular ages. And I love doing this for them. I like to think that I’m being a good auntie by introducing them to such greats as John Scieszka and Norton Juster, Judy Blume and M.T. Anderson. I can only hope that the kids appreciate these personally signed books as much as their obligatory thank you call implies!

But, since I can never be sure, there’s the second part to my gift—a small gift card usually to Walmart where they can buy anything they want. But this year I decided to avoid the big monolith. And I did my Christmas shopping at local vendors and shops wherever I could. Which was all well and good. But what to do about those gift cards? Running short on time (all these things have to be packaged up and mailed) I ended up deciding on Visa Gift Cards. What I learned is that, unlike Walmart gift cards, the Visa ones cost $3.95 each! Basically I had to pay for money? Which, of course, is ridiculous and I will never do again.

Did I mention how I like to wrap them up all cute before sending them off?  

Anyway . . . next year’s gifts to the distant sibling and sibling-in-law offspring will look a little different. Sure, there will still be the books . . .  personally signed by authors I meet. But there is likely to be far less plastic involved.    

Personification - where the world turns human

Take that clock over there, the one up on the wall above the table. It’s been hanging there forever, staring at me with that blank look on its flat face as it ticks away the seconds of my life with its right hand, the hours with its left. Damn thing, sometimes I’ll glance up quick enough to find it smirking at me. Then it’ll catch itself and wipe its face back into a mask of unconcern. But I know. I know that it spends whole days just staring, judging, tapping its fingers as I take way too much time writing.

Anyway, I like personification. It can be an interesting way to breathe life (real life) into a scene or story. Take for example:

A Possibility

Earth mother spins lazily on her haunches allowing her occupants equal time with their father. Some of them suffer, wishing to remain in the dark where they can enjoy the tranquil beauty of the niece rather than be subjected to the hotheaded fury of the father. He’s always had such an explosive temper!

Earth mother knows all about her husband’s volatile moods. And yet sometimes even she loses her cool, becomes angry at the behavior of the occupants. Like the time when the carnivores had gotten the upper hand and were bullying the rest into extinction. Look how she handled that! All she needed to do was let her guard down just a bit and glance the other way as the meteor hurtled toward her, hitting her midsection with the ferocity of . . . well, a meteor. That had certainly stirred the pot, hadn’t it?

But now it looks like the same thing is happening again, the need for intervention, a wakeup call to the new inhabitants. She needs to let them know that they are overstepping the boundaries of their pants . . . or is it “getting too big for their britches?” Ah yes, it’s the latter; she’s always liked that phrase, happy she’d picked it up one afternoon as another mother stood looking up into the face of her teenage son, shaking her finger and scolding.

Too big for their britches indeed. It’s time for some lessons, lessons from a mother who knows no language, one who communicates through action. So she’ll intensify the fury of the storm god Baal, melt the polar caps, raise the tides and reduce the value of beachfront property. Then she’ll wait patiently to see if that gets their attention. It should. After all, these inhabitants seem much wiser than their scaly predecessors.

Earth Mother hopes she’s right. She hates the idea of having to start all over - again.