I was giddy to be turned loose with money in a store (well if you can call the cafeteria tables lined with small plastic items a store).  Dressed in a cherry print flannel shirt and overalls with matching applique, I followed along in the line behind my classmates, clutching my envelope of possiblity as I entered the room of wonder. Table upon table filled with wondrous trinkets for the choosing. My childhood eyes were so easily seduced by all the glorious and gleaming treasures. I perused the selections stopping at a plastic Christmas house ornament with iridescent glitter and then I spotted them.

Boppers.

You know those glittery balls on springs attached to a headband.  You have to understand I was a child who loved  sparkly things.  My sister was the imaginative one, but  from an early age I, I was the lover of beauty. And to a six year old nothing tops the aesthetic chart like glitter and rhinestones. In fact as a child, I probably would’ve sold my soul for a mere ounce jar of multicolored glitter. All of my classroom art projects dripped with glue, and were so saturated with copious sprinklings of glitter that I left a magical gleaming trail wherever I went.

I picked up the bag of boppers. The glittery shapes waving gently on the tenuous springs, beckoning to be bought. Truly this was the perfect thing for Christmas, this was after all the season of twinkling and sparkling, beauty and magic.  I was always wise and logical beyond my years.   I was, I am sure, smart enough to know that my parents would not likely share my deep and immovable desire for boppers and see them as an essential purchase and somehow I didn’t trust Santa would remember to get this critical item on the list mixed in with the Strawberry Shortcake doll requests. So I seized the spirit of the gift giving season and did what any self respecting child would do I forked over the money and came home with the plastic ornament (which I figured could suffice as a group gift for the rest of my family) and the boppers. I wrapped them up and placed them under the tree.

 To: Leslie From: Leslie

The tag on the package proudly bore my best printing. Between that and the mistletoe our teacher gave each of us (a tradition I had yet to encounter) I knew this was going to be the best Christmas ever.  Well, Christmas morning brought a good round of laughter from my family. They were quite amused at my true embodiment of the “season of giving” spirit. They were left to share the plastic ornament (albeit with glitter decor) while I proudly sported my own pair of boppers. This story has gone down in the Whyte family Christmas lore and I never escape a Christmas with a reminder of this infamous incident.

The boppers are long gone, probably crushed by the packers during a childhood move. The ornament however remains in a place of honor on the tree probably an ironic testament to the “better to give than receive” mantra.

But for the record I still love glitter and mistletoe and buying myself  the occasional To Leslie From Leslie Christmas presents (however I don’t buy them at Santa’s workshop anymore- this year it’s coming in the form of a charcoal gray couch)

Share with me some of your memorable Christmas memories (good, bad or embarrassing)? What have been your most meaningful or memorable gifts?

Related posts:

1. The Case for Shopping
2. Reproaching ourselves at Christmas time
3. Stuff, Stuff, Stuff