I suppose that the Christmas traditions we cling to the most as an adult are the ones we enjoyed the most as children. This means that, for some people, pine trees covered with lead-foil tinsel are a must. For others, if the family wassail doesn’t contain fresh pineapple juice, why, it’s simply unacceptable. And, of course, if somebody doesn’t sing about the time their Grandmother got run over by a reindeer—what kind of holiday season is that?
This being the case, you can imagine what it was like for my wife and me when my parents invited us to spend our 1972 holiday season with them in their new home. This meant that the celebration wouldn’t be held in Northwestern Washington where I had been raised (and where Christmas was done correctly), but in the red rock town of Peach Springs, Arizona, where Dad had taken a job managing the local trading post—a place, I surmised, that would not be the least bit in sync with our family’s time-honored traditions.
“I suppose joyfully sliding down the snow-covered foothills of Mt. Baker atop an inverted car hood is out of the question,” I mumbled to my wife as I envisioned the scratchy, dry, red sandstone celebration Dad was promising us. “Plus,” I continued, “you can bet that I won’t be stuffing myself with the Hoag’s (our Washington neighbors) delicious smoked salmon. You can get excommunicated for less than that,” I mumbled in Louise’s direction. “I’m pretty sure that not eating smoked salmon during the holidays is a vegan sin.”
“Venial sin,” Louise corrected me.
“Either way,” I responded, “I’ll miss the sockeye.”
This whole “let’s expand our horizons” holiday was about to take place because earlier that year, Dad had accepted a job offer to run the Hualapai tribe’s retail businesses located forty-two miles northeast of Kingman, Arizona, just off Route 66. And now, after living almost a year in Peach Springs, he and Mom couldn’t wait for us to come celebrate the holidays with them.
“We also have,” Dad shouted over the phone, “a magnificent gift for you. I swear it’s going to knock your . . . ” but then Mom cut him off: “Hang up the phone before you ruin the big surprise!” Click.
What surprise?
When my parents first arrived at the trading post, Mom immediately fell in love with the Native American artwork that the store proudly displayed. Clay pottery, fancy leather work, turquoise squash blossoms, and other art pieces, all caught her attention. But it was the locally produced basketry that most impressed Mom. Unfortunately, the beautifully woven baskets were expensive. But then again, maybe if she cut back a little here and a tad there she could buy a basket for Louise and me. She’d have to wait and see. A hundred dollars was a lot of money.
And then, as if she had been reading Mom’s mind, Lucy (one of the local basket makers), asked Mom for a favor.
“You own a van,” Lucy observed. “I was wondering if you’d drive me a few miles north to an area where the shoots I use to make my baskets are now the right size to be harvested. I’ll cut them and load them into your van. You just need to haul me and the shoots.”
Of course she would haul the shoots, Mom thought to herself. Better still, she’d help cut them as well.
Two days later, with visions of baskets dancing in her head, Mom and her new friend Lucy climbed into Mom’s Volkswagen van and merrily headed off in pursuit of northern Arizona tree shoots of some sort. It was a miserably hot day, the work would be difficult, and Mom’s heart was soon to be tested (cue ominous music).
After working arduously for eight hours in the heat, cutting enough basket material to nearly fill the Van, Mom signaled to Lucy that she felt sick. Then, to prove her point, she passed out. Lucy thought Mom was dead. (She wasn’t, of course, but she did suffer some sort of episode.) Notwithstanding the frightening setback, a few minutes later when Mom eventually came to, she insisted on finishing the job.
“Plus,” she told Lucy, “I want to buy all the baskets these shoots will make. I almost died for them. I want to purchase every single one of them.”
“Why, Mrs. Patterson!” Lucy responded. “The shoots we’ve gathered today are barely enough to make one basket.” And thus, Mom was introduced to the harsh economics of making handcrafted baskets. Lucy not only gathered an entire van full of shoots, she also dried them, split them, dyed them, and wove them—until one day, after several weeks of taxing labor, she presented Mom with her finished one-hundred-dollar basket. This was the present Mom couldn’t wait to give us. This was the gift that had almost stopped her heart.
You can imagine the scene that unfolded that Christmas Eve as we sat cheek-to-jowl in the cramped space behind the Hualapai trading post. At the first stroke of gift-giving time, Mom reached under the tree, gathered up a beautifully wrapped box, and placed it at our feet. I had no idea what was inside.
“It’s a handmade Hualapai basket!” Mom explained as she helped Louise tear through the tissue paper. “My friend Lucy made it! Isn’t it gorgeous?” Then Mom went on to explain the meaning contained in the basket’s design and the story of how she had collapsed—all the while staring intently into our faces—taking pleasure from knowing that her gift had brought us joy. That’s right, she wasn’t looking for praise for having given us such a special gift (as is often the case) she was simply reveling in our delight.
It was on this day I realized that all gifts, thoughtfully and lovingly given, are similar to Russian nesting dolls. I know this sounds silly, but it’s true. The basket Mom gave us wasn’t covered with hand-painted babushkas, but it was a nested gift all the same. The external component was the Hualapai basket itself—perfectly shaped and gorgeously designed. Nested inside lay the fascinating Native American history captured in the basket’s intricate pattern. Nested within this lay the story of Mom’s harrowing sacrifice. And finally, if you continued for long enough, you’d come to the centerpiece—the hardest to get to and, in some ways, the loveliest addition. It was the radiant look on Mom’s face.
This concept of nesting several elements into a single gift was made even clearer to me five years later—in a rather odd way. Someone stole our beloved basket. I couldn’t believe that somebody had actually taken our precious art piece. Fortunately, I was now mature enough to realize that only the basket itself was gone. We still had the lion’s share of the gift.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” my nine-year-old granddaughter asked as I told her about my red-rock epiphany.
“Nested, one piece inside the next,” I explained, “we had the appreciation for native history and art, the tender story behind Mom’s sacrifice, and the glorious look on her face as her love washed across the trading post.”
“But the basket’s gone,” my granddaughter exclaimed.
“Not to me,” I answered. “Not to me.”
I wish you would write a book, because, you tell such good stories.
Monica, what a wonderful comment. It gives me the chance to plug my favorite Kerry Patterson book, The Gray Fedora. It brings together many of my favorite Kerrying On stories. I’ve had the blessing of being able to work with Kerry since we were both grad students, back in 1976. Trust me, his stories may be wonderful, but they are just the tip of a wonderful human being.
No fair making me cry at work, Kerry…lol.
Thank you that was lovely. Like Lorena above, I too am crying at work. Better get the tissues.
Yvonne
Love the idea of each gift being a nested one. What a wonderful lens through which I will forever look at the future gifts I will receive. Much gratitude for sharing this beautiful perspective.
I really learned something and gained insight from this story. Too often, when the material things are damaged or gone, I am unduly saddened by their loss. This story gives a great perspective on the parts of those gifts that are never lost. Thanks!
Loved it Kerry! Merry Christmas.
A wonderful personal story that many of us also share with just a small twist here and there. Traditions are items, things, words, stories that are repeated each year at some special time on the yearly calendar. Think about the fact that if you only do the item once is it the start of the tradition. Maybe it is when you do it the second time. Just think if you never repeat an action, story or event, what would our world be like? We need traditions to build our culture, and in those traditions we need to remember why we have the tradition. Most of us say it is because Mom and Dad did it that way. During the next story that is told for the X number of times, ask why did it start the second time. Then ask how does it make you feel today, not this year, but today (now). Be ready to answer the question yourself, and you may be amazed at what you say.
Merry Christmas to all, and may blessings fall upon you each day.
CES
This is an awesome story you shared!! Way too often we do not give home made gifts the credit they are due. As you have stated it is the sheer delight from the giver that we need to appreciate and remember because there is so much love wrapped up in home made gifts. And I truly appreciate how you focus on the memory of the gift that can never be taken away from us, even if the physical gift itself is lost. This is so powerful!
Thanks for sharing your experience! Merry Christmas to you and yours! Enjoy the traditions of the season!
Wonderfully written with such a beautiful message for us all! Thank you.
A lovely message that I will attribute to future gifts I receive. And that can be applied to people as well. I am going to a wake tonight for the father of a friend. This will be a thoughtful way to help her through her grief. Each of us is a nesting doll and we are all gifts to each other. Look deeply into one another and savor what you see and share. I am done Christmas shopping this year but will put The Gray Fedora on my “to give” list for next year. Thank you David Maxfield for your kind words. And thank you Kerry Patterson for your engaging stories with such touching messages.
When I first got to know the VitalSmarts team, I will admit that Kerry was not at the top of my list. I wasn’t sure about his humor, and I often wondered how long will he go on before he would make his point. Now I find that he has really grown on me, and I always look forward to reading his posts because no doubt he will have a perspective that I haven’t considered. Getting acquainted with the VitalSmarts Team in 2013, along with their Influencer model, has been one of the more enriching things of my career.
Another great Kerry story. Thanks!
What a beautiful story of love and giving but more importantly of receiving a gift!
I am now remembering all the gifts, most long gone, that my mother gave to me. Thank you for triggering those memories!
Happy New Year!
Great story, thanks for reprising. One thing I love about Christmas, even though it can get too commercial, crazy and stressful, is the symbolism of gift giving as a reminder that God entered His creation in-person as the ultimate gift so we could connect with him more fully. This bedrock principle for Christmas can get hidden in the business of the season. It is easy to take for granted, or dismiss as a myth, and I suppose it could be, but it certainly has changed the world. I hope it rocks your world this Christmas Season. Have any of you watched episodes of the Chosen? Check it out, it will help bring the Bible to life. They really humanize Jesus in the program.
I’m not crying, you are. Ok, I am, too.
Kerry, your stories are the best! I devour each one as quickly as I can, then go back and reread, savoring every morsel. I agree, you need to put your stories together into a book!!
So sorry for the loss of your basket, I know it was important to you.