“So what do you guys think?” Steve’s loud tone and exaggerated gestures conveyed his lack of faith in his audience’s receptivity. “Let’s do this thing! Instead of wasting a bunch of money on a bunch a useless stuff, let’s make this Christmas memorable. This year. . . let’s make our own Christmas presents!”
Steve Forester’s fourth grade daughter Lystra burst into tears, ran up the stairs, and slammed her bedroom door. On the way out, Lystra had the last word, “I hate this stupid idea! You’re killing Christmas!”
Cynthia, Steve’s remaining progeny, sat quietly on the living room rug, legs crossed, head in hands. Steve hoped his youngest daughter might forget this memory; however, he was certain someday a therapist would help her remember.
Steve was reluctant to look towards his wife. Even so, he could feel her disapproval. When conflict greeted the Forester household, it was almost always three to one. Finally he looked in her direction. “What do you think, Jenny?”
Jennifer was a minimalist at heart. Her measured response said enough, “You really want to go through with this?” Steve bobbled a nod as Jenny continued. “Well. . . at least it will be memorable. I certainly will not forget it.” With oh well certitude she rose from the couch and reached down for Cynthia’s hand. “Come on little miss. Let’s go rescue your sister.”
In the initial stages, there is little difference between a true visionary and a bull-headed moron. Unfortunately for the Forester family, Steve saw himself as a visionary. His passion to rescue Christmas from its commercial crassness was too great to be thwarted by a temporary family rebellion.
As Christmas drew near, Steve began to question his visionary status. This was primarily due to his inability to make at least one viable Christmas present. With a week left until Christmas, Steve’s hand-craftiness had produced three wooden dolls with eerily misshaped torsos; a dozen smog hewed, lopsided votive candles; a pile of oddly variegated pot-holders; and two immobile, asymmetrical fiberglass wagons.
Steve knew he was in trouble when the craft store ladies started greeting him by name. Not only were his crafts poorly executed, they were also extremely impractical. The phrase, “it’s the thought that counts” was formed under such conditions. Shaken but still undeterred, Steve finally settled on a craft that appeared doable in the remaining time frame. He decided to make homemade perfume. This too was a terrible idea.
The internet site where Steve found his perfume recipe purported the fragrance would evoke the essence of Chanel. Steve’s stovetop implementation of the recipe produced a smell akin to Meth Lab. The oder was so pungent he closed all the windows of his house for fear of raising suspicion. It was at this moment Steve received a knock on the door from Sandra Lock, the Superintendent of schools.
Superintendent Lock’s wide smile turned slightly towards concern as she gazed upon Mr. Forester’s attire. Due to the caustic, splattering nature of his aroma alchemy, he was wearing protective gear in the form of a shower cap, safety glasses, chemist’s gloves, waist high waders, and a plastic apron. As Steve removed his glasses and opened the screen door, Sandra Lock turned her head to the side to temper the impact of the pungent wall of fumes.
“Well, hello Steven. I hope I didn’t interrupt you.” Mrs. Lock inhaled with a slight gasp. Her thoughts raced back to the drug awareness seminar she had attended in the fall. This, however, was not the reason for her visit. After some awkward small talk, Mrs. Lock diplomatically introduced the purpose of her house call.
“Steve, there’s no easy way to say this. So I’m asking that you just hear me out before you respond.” She paused and entered into more rehearsed remarks. “A few weeks back, your daughter Cynthia started crying in class. She told her teacher how you guys were making each other presents because you couldn’t afford to buy gifts. When we heard the news, we just felt we needed to do something. So a bunch of us got together and bought you and your family some Christmas gifts.” Mrs. Lock turned and pointed to the large bag of presents sitting directly behind her.
“You did what?”
Steve’s confused question turned to lament as he leaned out the door and caught a glimpse of the extensive pile of donated gifts. The confusion left him at a loss for words. Before he could bring reality into the equation, Superintendent Lock quickly closed the conversation and headed for the car. She had mistaken Mr. Forester’s shocked silence to be an expression of profound gratitude.
When the dust settled, Steve Forester and the entire Forester family found themselves confronting an issue that went far beyond the Forester homestead. Steve Forester’s desire to implement a homemade, non-commercial Christmas had not been motivated by a lack of money. Unfortunately, he failed to properly convey this reality to his six-year-old daughter Cynthia. She suspected the family to be destitute.
Accordingly, Cynthia had taken it upon herself to communicate the plight of the Forester family to numerous charitable organizations. After a fair amount of gentle interrogation, Steve discovered she had contacted at least 20 social service agencies as well as numerous holiday wish contests. As Cynthia was finishing her confession, the local Christian radio station called.
“Is this Mr. Forester?”
(Part Five 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.