Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published 12/2/04

Charlie writes:

December is upon us, and with it comes the annual scramble for gifts. "Let’s talk about that," I say, as Lisa, ensconced in her riser chair, catches me up on her week.

"I’ve been hiding stuff," she sheepishly admits, "because, finally the Avon lady came--a new one. I’d ordered…a few things," she doesn’t make eye contact. "But then she showed up with this separate basket, where she had discontinued little gifts that were very very reduced," she pleads her case. "They were just a fraction of the original price and of course I couldn’t resist."

"So what did you get?" I ask, looking about her condo and wondering where she’s stashed her booty.

As she runs down the list, most of it thoughtfully ear-marked for her many friends, I feel the first twinge of holiday anxiety. I’ve not started buying presents, and my list is long. Not wanting to think about the task ahead, I ask, "What’s the first gift you remember?"

She gazes out at her bird feeder, as a well-fed squirrel discovers the tray of bread crumbs I’d just put out. "For my fourth birthday, I got a doll kitchen. My mother told me later that when she gave it to me I was looking all around for the Christmas tree, because I connected having a gift with Christmas. And it had a little stove and dishes for my dolls and tables and chairs. And I think there were four candles burning inside of it, and that made me kind of wonder where the Christmas tree was."

"But you’re Jewish."

"True, but for many German Jews, unless they were Orthodox, we were much assimilated, and we always had a Christmas tree, if not for us, for our maids."

"What’s the best gift you ever got?"

"My Bird feeder," she says.

"I don’t think so…Try harder. Or what makes a gift good?" I ask.

"I’m not the kind of person who looks for value, like a gold digger. I appreciate thoughtfulness. Like for instance I remember when I lived in a small, third-floor walk-up on Morton Street in the Village and one of the first gifts Henry [an old beau] gave me was a pink electric blanket; it was my favorite color, and he wanted me to stay warm.…I also remember a beautiful doll I had when I was a child, it was the size of a one-year-old and it wore all of the clothes I had when I was a baby. But now that I think about it, my very best present was my Shih Tzu Chula, which Henry gave me. She was with me for eleven years; we were inseparable. I never went anywhere without her, even press conferences and restaurants. I had her so well trained she’d run into her tote bag, and most of the time no one ever knew she was there. Once I was having lunch with a girlfriend and the bag with Chula was under the table. So I poured some water out and put it in a bowl for her. And my friend—who didn’t realize there was a dog inside--said, "I didn’t know your bag drank water."

"So what else makes a good gift?"

"You really have to know the person," she says, "and their likes and dislikes, and hobbies. For instance, you are the hardest person to give a gift to because you’re a spoiled brat."

"And why is that?"

"Because one gives you something and then you don’t like it. And you make sure to let them know you don’t like it. Here I was trying so hard to get that black cat, because I thought it would amuse you. And you hated it. And once I gave you an activated thing that counted how many steps you use when you exercise and you never used it either. And I was very hurt."

"Please, that cat is horrible. Every time you walk by it, or there’s a loud noise, it starts to sing and it doesn’t shut up." Lisa too bought one of these, and I’ve been slowly moving it toward the periphery of her condo. Right now, it’s half-hidden on the window seat in her living room.

"It’s adorable."

"It’s annoying…what about obligatory presents, like for people at work? It used to be easy when I’d go out and buy a few crates of wine, put the bottles in gift bags and sign a card."

"That sounds nice."

"No, I can’t get away with that anymore," I say. "Liquor has become tricky, especially being a psychiatrist. I can see it now, ‘I had twelve years of sobriety and then Dr. Atkins gave me a bottle of wine and I fell off the wagon, I lost my job, my family….’"

"Wasn’t it Dorothy Parker who said, Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker? Or was it Ogden Nash?" She asks.

"I think him…What’s the best gift you’ve ever given?" I ask.

"Myself…"she laughs, and the black cat—activated by the noise--shrieks and then starts to sing.

"Were you gift wrapped?"

"Not for long."

"So," I say, as I try to concentrate over the cat’s electronic rendition of I Always Feel Like Somebody’s Watching Me, "Back to what makes a good gift." But the noise is too much, and I can’t take it. I get up, grab the cat, flip it over, and try to find the off button.

"Don’t do that!" she shouts, starting the wretched thing on a second verse. "I love that cat. You’re so rigid! For such a young man, you’re very rigid."

Finally, it stops. I suddenly realize that every time I come to her condo, I turn the cat off, yet every time I visit, someone has reactivated it. I put it back on the window seat, and hide it a bit further behind an arrangement of silk flowers. "You were saying about gifts…" I prompt, not wanting her to see what I’m up to.

"It should be for keeps," she says, "and it should remind you of the giver. It should be something that you yourself love. Not something that someone gave you that you want to get rid of. It should be something that possibly has meaning to you."

"What if you don’t like the person?"

"Well, if you don’t like the person and have to give them the obligatory gift, I guess you do the best you can. But I’m talking about giving gifts to people you care about. And of course there’s always money, for people who perform certain services for you throughout the year. Like the newspaper delivery, and the person who brings you your medications from the pharmacy, your hair dresser....And let’s not forget charity," Lisa says. "People spend so much money on gifts and cards and postage, I sometimes think it would be better if they’d just make a donation to their favorite charity. Like for me, it’s organizations that protect animals and help to spay and neuter cats and dogs."

"Do you have a wish list?" I ask.

"To be healthy," she replies without pause. "It’s funny you should ask that though, because the Senior Center sends a letter every year asking what you’d like. It’s a wonderful thing they do; they come and bring you Christmas gifts. So this year…I asked for a dish cloth and a dust rag." She laughs loudly, and the black cat—that I thought I’d turned off—let’s out a spine-tingling scream and starts to sing again. "I would like some liqueur," she adds, seemingly oblivious to the caterwauling toy, "like Harvey’s or Bailey’s Irish Cream."

"Great, so I‘ll find you drunk and passed out, with that damn cat singing in the background."

"You know, I haven’t had a drink since a little plum wine at that Chinese restaurant," she says, harking back to an outing before her stroke.

I think about that restaurant, and their excellent Peking duck, and I ponder what to get Lisa. If I could swing a meal out, she’d very much enjoy that. But with her physical limitations, it might not be a good idea. She always appreciates jewelry, especially shaped like a cat, but I’ve got something else in mind. I can’t write about it now, as she’s going to read this. And I guess that sums up all the good parts of gifting, of thinking about people we love, spending some time to come up with something they’ll like—preferably something they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, get for themselves--and then savoring those fun moments of anticipation and excitement as they tear off the ribbons and the wrapping and finally get to see—what’s in the box.

[ Home ] [ Up ]