Imperfect Fits

As I was telling my panic disorder specialist the other day: For me, growing up in a high-strung family, holidays seldom lived up to their advance billing--for better or for worse. But discounting the Christmas Eve shotgun incident in 1960, most were pleasant, if not totally fulfilling, events.

Sure, my sister and I always got lots of toys and other stuff, but I don’t remember anything in particular. To my overanxious child sensibilities, it seemed Christmas Day was almost always rendered incomplete by some defective toy or the wrong size battery or an elusive missing part that had to be back-ordered and would arrive sometime in late spring.

As an adult gift-giver, I have always strived for that holy moment of communion between gift, giver and getter--the perfect match that will create a heartwarming memory to last a lifetime. But I admit I don’t always succeed. And, in turn, I’ve received my own share of disappointing clunkers.

My ex-wife once bought me a silk smoking jacket. I’ve never smoked, and if I had, my ex would have thrown me out in the backyard. People say it’s not the gift, but the thought that counts. OK, so what the hell was she thinking?

For years, friends and relatives have given me music for the holidays, knowing that music occupies a special place in my life. People seem to take one of three buying strategies: 1) they give me music they like, 2) they give me music they think I’d like, or 3) they give me music they think I should like.

The first strategy is by far the easiest for the giver. (The thought: “I like it and we’re friends, so he’ll like it.”) But apparently some of my friends don’t have the taste of a hungry dog, judging by some of this stuff: recordings by Leonard Nimoy, William Shatner, Yanni, John Tesh, Bette Midler, Barry Manilow, etc., etc.

The second strategy has yielded such gems as an album of Bob Dylan songs recorded by Sebastian Cabot, the actor who played Mr. French on TV’s “Family Affair” (The thought: “The songs are still great, but I never knew Mr. French could sing!”).

Then there is the strategy of gift giving as education. During the 1960s, that one got me several Perry Como albums as an uncle tried to expose me to “good music.” (The thought: “Listen to Perry--no straining, no screaming, now that’s real singing. . .”)

Many Christmases later, I gave a niece a historic Beatles album with the intention of broadening her somewhat limited musical horizons. To my surprise, the ignorant little twit didn’t appreciate my effort, but instead wanted something by someone I’d never heard of.

So, we had to special-order it, and it didn’t arrive until late spring.

Ahhhh.

Isn’t it comforting to know that some family holiday traditions never change?