As Steve walked toward the kitchen garbage, the fruitcake weighed particularly heavy in his hand and on his conscience. Unable to resist a gracious gift from a persuasive widow, Steve had been forced to break his first Christmas resolution. Weeks before he had determined not to allow Christmas to intrude upon his November. Sadly, he found himself a week before Thanksgiving, about to throw away his first Christmas present: a fruitcake from “grandma” Lurvy.
Divine intervention comes in all forms; for Steve Forester it arrived in the form of a uncooperative garbage can. As a public school teacher, Mr. Forester’s acquisition power was limited. Consequently, the Forester’s house was less than state of the art. This created some minor hardships for Steve. For instance, Steve was forced to watch his favorite football team in low definition. The burden of this low-tech life was far reaching.
To compensate for his dearth of expensive technological gadgetry, Steve would, on occasion, purchase a low cost, high-tech gizmo. These bottom drawer purchases included such items as an automatic apple peeling parer, an electric pasta maker, and a fully automated Mini-sausage Factory. Most of these items lasted for many years due to their infrequent use and limited usefulness. Even so, Steve was still perpetually attracted to low cost, high-tech solutions. This led to his most recent purchase, a motion sensor kitchen garbage can.
The idea was simple enough. Instead of being forced to manually lift the garbage lid, one had only to wave their hand in front of the motion sensor and watch the lid magically rise. No more awkward grasping and unnecessary bending. More importantly, there was no way this techno-can would ever be placed in the bottom drawer.
From its inaugural use, Steve’s motion sensor garbage can appeared to be a great success. Each family member took his or her turn effortlessly disposing garbage in the all too eager contraption. Steve’s youngest daughter Cynthia spent the evening feeding the receptacle as if it were a trained seal.
With her six-year-old imagination in full form, Cynthia commanded the can, “Now sit! . . . Good boy! . . . Now catch! . . . Good job. Who’s a good trash can, who’s a good trash can.” Each time the seal opened its mouth, Cynthia’s would reward it with a crumpled up piece of paper. Steve began to question the necessity of ever owning a dog. By week’s end, Steve questioned the wisdom of ever buying the garbage can.
Unbeknownst to Mr. Forester, his contemporary canister had been equipped with NASA strength sensors. As a result, the trash can had a habit of opening its lid whenever anyone walked near the kitchen or even near the house. Even when all seemed still, the lid would suddenly pop up as if haunted by an extremely tidy ghost. Soon the family began to avoid the kitchen for fear of causing the can to unnecessarily flip its top. Consequently, like a neglected pet, the oversensitive waste bucket languished in the corner of the kitchen, continually begging to be fed.
To this over zealous trash can, Steve Forester brought Mrs. Lurvy’s fruitcake offering. As Steve reached the garbage can, something rather unexpected happened, or more accurately, did not happen. The garbage lid refused to open. Steve waved the fruitcake in front of the sensor as if it were a lure to be swallowed. The trash can would not take the bait. Instead, it sat quietly, defiantly, closed lipped.
“Come on! Open up, you stupid can.” The can would not step down. Steve waved both hands in front of the stubborn can like a frantic mime, hailing a cab. His efforts came to no avail, the lid remained shut. Steve was about to manhandle the hand sensor when suddenly the word “intervention” popped into his head. Like a divine whisper, “intervention” interrupted Mr. Forester’s quest to trash the first fruits of his premature Christmas.
Steve’s thoughts immediately responded to the word. “Intervention . . . That’s what this is. . . it’s an intervention. This garbage can is trying to tell me something. This fruitcake. . . this fruitcake is what Christmas is all about. Something handmade, from the heart, genuine.” His rapid fire cogitation continued. “This is a sign! We don’t need less fruitcake, we need more fruitcake. . . . Well maybe not fruitcake, but more of this!” Steve paused in his mental soliloquy, stood up straight, and raised the fruitcake to eye level. “This is Christmas! This is what we need. More of this!”
The line between inspiration and madness has much to do with who writes the biography. From Steve’s autobiographical perspective, he had stumbled upon the best path to redeem Christmas. Those around him were less certain. Regardless, Steve resolved to pursue a dual course of action. First, he would make it his quest to find someone who actually liked fruitcake. Second, he would prevent his family from succumbing to the commercialization of Christmas. This year, instead of buying presents for his family, he would make them handcrafted gifts.
In theory the idea had merit. In reality it verged on disastrous.
(Part Four tomorrow)
Douglas Bursch is the author of Posting Peace: Why Social Media Divides Us and What We Can Do About It. He also hosts The Fairly Spiritual Show podcast.