THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, December 23, 1994 TAG: 9412220134
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 7 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 84 lines
One day in the summer of 1973 I made a decision that still haunts me.
``I am never buying a last-minute gift or gift wrap, again!'' I vowed. That was right after my kids gave me 10 minutes notice that all three of them had been invited to a birthday party for some guy named Jimmy who lived eight blocks away and had asked the whole neighborhood to come by for Coke and pizza. The price of admission was, as usual, a gift.
It took a $30 trip through the neighborhood drug store and a gift wrap marathon to get my trio out the door and on their way. Bear in mind that this was 1973 bucks. Thirty of them would pay a 10th the monthly mortgage, put six tanks of gas in the car or feed my brood for a couple of days.
The next week I found abandoned autograph hounds and slightly tarnished mood rings on sale at the Navy Exchange for a dollar each. Both items were hot with the preteen set in those days.
To refresh your memory, autograph hounds were dog shaped critters covered with unbleached muslin. The idea was to have all of your friends write nice notes for you to remember them by. In the boy-filled world of our neighborhood, the notes were not nice but the idea was popular anyway.
The mood rings contained some kind of crystal that was supposed to reflect your mood - blue or green for calm, black for turbulent. I put one on one morning when the kids were slugging it out over the last pop tart and the dog had barfed Froot Loops all over the living room carpet.
The stone turned black and streaks of lightning shot through it.
Anyway, I stocked up on hounds, rings, ribbons and wrapping paper. ``From now on,'' I announced, ``we'll just go to the closet when we need a gift.''
That was more than 20 years ago. Since then I've filled the tops of five closets with presents waiting to be presented. I've also filled two enormous boxes with gift wrap for them to be presented in.
Whenever we have to declare our net worth, Bill agonizes over whether or not we should include our gift stock. ``The tax people are sure to catch up with us one of these days,'' he mutters as he surveys the collection of umbrellas ($2 each at a Totes closeout), silver-plated bread baskets ($3 each, plus $20 for gas and another $20 for tolls, at a silver outlet on the Eastern Shore) and panty hose ($8 a dozen through the mail - unfortunately I bought so many a few years back that they're beginning to rot).
The gift wrap alone is probably worth $400 or $500. I date it by color. Avocado and gold dates back to the middle '70s and shades of blue to the '80s. The pink and gray combos are either left over from our first Christmas (1958) or bought within the past year.
The problem with all of this is, basically, storage.
Those autograph hounds, for instance, were a real killer.
``Why is my closet full of dachshunds?'' Bill yelled when he went to hang up his uniform the night after my Navy Exchange trip.
``To save money,'' I told him.
He didn't question me further. He knew it wasn't worth the effort.
I am reminded of all of this now because I have, for the 10th Christmas in a row, been trying to figure out some way to get rid of my single largest bargain-gift purchase, a harvest gold ovenproof glass Dutch oven the size of a hole made by a very large crater, which came packaged in a box roughly the size of Wyoming.
``Serves 12,'' it says on the box.
``Twelve what?'' Bill wanted to know when he unloaded it from the trunk of my car after a trip to the pottery.
``Elephants?'' I suggested, trying to add a little levity. He was not amused.
I couldn't answer him then; I can't now. I've never actually seen the thing. I figure it would take a saw, pickax and crow bar to get into the package.
All I know is, every year I try to think of someone to give it to and every year I draw a blank. Harvest gold has been out of favor since 1981. Big families disappeared with the advent of the pill. There is, as the manufacturer realized when he sold 100 gross of them to the pottery at what I suspect was two cents on the dollar, no market for the product.
So there it sits, taking up half a closet, reminding me that maybe loading up on gifts wasn't such a great deal after all.
I moved it the other day, hoping that I'd find something more useful behind it.
All I found were three autograph hounds and a couple of mood rings. I put one of the rings on. You'll be happy to know the lightning storm was alive and well. by CNB