If you are a parent, grandparent or a friend of someone who is, you have an intimation of a child's idea of a gift. A clump of crushed flowers, picked from the library's own flower beds on the way in, a treasured drawing, crafted with Crayola yellow and purple, a rock with a peculiar shape.
When I worked in Peace River in the public library, I usually manned the main circulation desk, the front line receiving the wave of patrons. One particular child came in regularly with his beautiful mother, Maxine. Joseph did not have his mother's vivid red waves. His dark, straight, carefully combed style complemented his dark-chocolate eyes, warm, anxious to attract my attention.
They attended my church but I don't believe Joseph recognized me from there. To him I represented the library and he loved his books. I met the two of them in the grocery store once and saw surprise in those fine eyes.
Maxine and Joseph headed to the children's section and returned with a large stack of books to be signed out. I'm thinking of Richard Scarry's delightfully busy and detailed picture books, or Dr. Seuss's fascinating tongue twisters in cartoon character, but perhaps that was because those were the choices of my own sons at that age.
Joseph was perhaps three and mine 11 and seven. Joseph regarded me with respect. Mine saw me only as mom.
Joseph brought me a gift one warm summer Saturday. I looked up from my typing to find him watching me, standing on tiptoe to see over the counter. Maxine lifted him up to my level to present his gift, a flamboyant bouquet of dandelions, lush and cheery. His eyes begged me to accept his gift, to accept him. The bouquet graced the checkout desk the rest of the day, resplendent in a squat drinking glass.
I often think about that, the heart behind a gift. My own children were also gift givers, more so at a young age. I recall from my own early childhood, making cut-out snowflakes from folded coloured paper.
I also received the snowflakes, paper chains, mobiles and original works of art. One I kept for years: an expert stick figure wearing a skirt, holding a red-handled implement. It was titled, "My mom plants strawberries." We had a small shovel that had a bright red handle, and I often tried various plants around our sparse yard, once the flood flats on the banks of the Peace River.
Another drawing was misplaced over the years. It was a note left for his father who was resting. It showed a small child walking an animal on a lead. Nick had gone across the street to visit our neighbours' dog. Lady was a sweet old collie, one of his dear friends.
When my oldest was small and not yet feeling the need to vie for attention, he had the eye of an artist. When we went for long walks he noticed tiny flowers growing from cracks in the sidewalks. He was fascinated by the antics of the black squirrels in a city park on our route. He noticed people in obvious need and was distressed when we could not help.
At bedtime his pockets often revealed a collection of oddly shaped rocks, a bright marble, maybe a scrap of wood.
As an adult his gifts became more personal, a thoughtful lengthy poem, about his recollections of growing up. His gifts to me were his time, his love, a fragment of his thoughts.
My granddaughter has occasionally been the one selecting my gift. When she was younger I received a snow globe with a bright-eyed big-eared white bunny. I had rabbits for many years and Kaytlin and Sonata had a tentative relationship. Kaytlin loved wildly when she was a toddler, touching and grabbing and receiving nips in return. She was relentless. She eventually learned to approach gently and received a less sharp response.
Kaytlin's gifts to me were cuddles, giggles and sloppy kisses. She now is beginning to write to me, at my request; first a few notes and more recently an actual letter. What more could I hope for?
- Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist who lives in Olds.
