My son and his wife don’t exchange gifts. They think that love expressed in material forms merely creates more clutter in a surfeited world. They might also tell you that the day-to-day “gifts” of mutual respect, service, and sacrifice are the only true tokens of a loving partnership.
Not I. I was programmed by post-war capitalism. Money talked, and I was taking notes. I learned that the real emissaries of regard were 3-dimensional, or money. That was it. My grandparents’ letters might include fine sentences expressing love and support, but nothing in their words came close to the thrill of acceptance they gave when they included a $25 check made out to me.
When I fancied a girl in the fifth grade, I nonverbally communicated my esteem with a bag full of what I hoped was her favorite penny candy. If I had ever succeeded in getting a classmate to be my “girlfriend,” according to the rules of this game, there was a sort of claddagh ring I’d have to buy to signify the relationship’s validity. For a bond to matter, you see, it had to manifest in real terms, things you could hold in your hand or spend at the market.
When I was turning ten, I was reasonably sure my dad didn’t love me. Then, on my birthday, I discovered he had been paying attention to my obsession with fishing ads in the back pages of Boys’ Life and the comics I read.
I entered the house through the kitchen, and Dad said with a smile, “Hey. why don’t you go into the living room, Drew?”
I did, and there, spread out on the couch, were every one of the 411 pieces of fishing equipment I’d coveted
“Ah!” I sighed inwardly, “Dad loves me!”
Dad’s gift implied in my mind a more precious one that failed to materialize–his taking me to his childhood fishing spots–on the banks of the Paw Paw, or off the pier in South Haven–and spending uninterrupted hours with his boy.
Last November, my son gave a proposal: he and I spend some uninterrupted weeks in the countries I traveled to when a 17-year-old exchange student–Belgium, France, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg. He offered me an extended session of his company, something I’ve missed these 18 years since he moved to the city.
Who was this young man? I wasn’t totally sure. Part of me feared: joint travel is miserable with incompatible companions. But how rare was this opportunity! Given my advancing age and the impermanence of things, how foolish to pass it up. I accepted, and we began planning together– the present’s first pay-off.
Now in the Brussels airport awaiting my flight back, how grateful I am for Kyle’s gift! From the catacombs of Paris to Luxembourg’s Ducal Palace, and from the canals of Amsterdam to Ghent and Brussels’ medieval splendor, my boy and I drank deeply from the cultures we encountered. We shared flats and meals and expenses, and absolutely no tangible property. The present was my presence with him.
He is now traveling back to Paris to spend time with his wife, as I return to sweet home Chicago. When he gets back, I will thank him again for teaching me his and Britney’s language of gifts: Transcend the mere stuff and go right for the rich experience of life!
The Wikiness 
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