STRANGE PREZZIES

It may be taken as a sign that we've reached maturity when we find more pleasure in giving gifts than in getting them. But I have no idea what it means when I find as much pleasure as I do in giving strange gifts.


I suppose I could always claim that it runs in my family. Ever since I was old enough to get a joke, I was aware of a traditional exchange of one peculiar gift between my mother and a cousin of hers: a jar of clam juice - in fact, the same jar.


The tradition (which has now outlasted them both) had its origins in some obscure gag about not knowing what to get relatives at Xmas. And every Xmas since, it's been passed back and forth, disguised in various, ornate and unusual wrappings; until now, when (should the jar ever break) it will require a HazMat team to clean up the spill.


I've never been that outrageous in my Holiday shopping, but I have had my moments. And I've come to recognize three important elements in selecting an oddball gift.


The first is shock value.


One Xmas in Montreal, I came upon a titanium propeller blade from a Viscount turbo-prop airliner in a little antique shop and couldn't resist buying it. I trundled it into a taxi and headed home to wrap it up.


The driver tried to disguise his shock. (Cabbies hate to admit they haven't seen it all!) But finally, he relented and asked what the hell  it was and what the hell did I plan to do with it. 


"It's a Xmas present for my wife," I explained. And he simply shook his head - sorry that he'd asked - and went back to his driving.


But when he dropped me at my apartment building, he said, "I'll wait down here for a bit, if you want." And when I asked why, he said, "Well, you'll need somebody to get you to the Emergency Room, after your wife sees that!"


I suppose I should have explained the propeller wasn't her only prezzie.


The second element is a gift's longterm effect - the gift that "keeps on giving", as they say.


The best example of that was the time I gave my sister a subscription to one of the more outrageous tabloids for which I wrote. Once every week, the postie would arrive at her door with a copy of NATIONAL SPOTLITE, neatly but not discreetly done up in a plain, brown wrapper. And every week, she felt compelled to explain that she hadn't subscribed to a paper like that and that it was her brother who worked for it - which made it even more embarrassing.


The third and less obvious element in a good gag gift is the craziness involved in buying it.


Not many Xmases ago, I was searching for something for my nephew (then in his mid-20s and newly-obsessed with carving). So, the choice was obvious enough: a block of wood. But acquiring such a simple thing proved to be more complicated than I'd expected.


Craft shops had chisels and such but precious little in the way of raw material. So, I ended up in a lumber yard, explaining sheepishly to the clerk at the order desk that I didn't want a pallet-load of plywood or a huge stack of 2x10s but just a small chunk of wood. 


She sent me to the foreman of the yard, and I went through the whole story again with him.


"What kind of wood?" he asked, with remarkable patience. And we went through the possibilities.


Pine? Soft and easy to work but too common.


Oak? Harder to carve but longer-lasting and elegant. 


"Don't think we have any in stock, though," he mused but sent one of his henchmen off to search, just in case.


Teak? Way too hard, expensive and no pieces the size I'd need.


About this time, another two workers had joined the hunt, offering suggestions, then scurrying off to see if there were any scraps about that would suit.  Before long, almost the entire staff of the yard was caught up in the quest; and I began to wonder if my nephew would have half as much fun with the gift as I was having - even before I'd set eyes on it.


At last, someone appeared with a perfect block of redwood; and we all congratulated him on his choice. The bill came to something under $20, but I'd have gladly paid four times that for the enjoyment of the hunt.


I have no idea what my nephew carved from the thing; but when I find out, I know I'll feel an obligation to pass on the news to a certain group of lumbermen.


So, if you're planning to get something humourous for someone special, I hope these tips will help. And as you scan the pretty parcels left for you beneath the tree and wonder what they might contain, remember to be grateful that it wasn't me who bought them. 


P.S. Starting Xmas Day, I'll be counting down the Twelve Days Of Christmas with a new story every day.