The Greatest Gift.

Even when I was a kid, Christmas shopping thrilled me to no end. I would gather whatever money I could and by things for the special people in my life. Grandma Perry got a windshield scraper. Aunt Doris was the recipient of a red plastic drinking cup. I bought a crochet hook and some beige yarn from Grand Central to fashion a sincere attempt at a potholder for Grandma Bishop. 

Mom was always harder to buy for. Pretty blouses ended up getting buried in the closet. Cheap perfume and costume jewelry never seemed to cut it. I’d later come to find out she wasn’t meant for frills and finery. When I got older, I bought her and Frank a glass fireplace screen. Not the most creative or sentimental of gifts, but they liked it well enough. Try as I did to find the perfect gift, I never really nailed it. 

In 1983, when I was 21, I attempted the impossible. I told my two brothers that I had booked a portrait photo session for the three of us. This would shock the hell out of Mom since Mark, Dave and I barely spoke a word to each other. They hemmed and hawed but reluctantly agreed to do it. We took separate cars to the studio and pretended we like each other.

Christmas morning we all unwrapped our bounty—nice gifts but nothing spectacular. Then we presented the 8x10 package to Mom. She looked at us, opened it and cried.

Nailed it.