Christmas on the cheap: Pam (Bonus Post)
(I had written this post before the "Baby, It's Cold Outside" brouhaha got to me. It ran along with that post yesterday. I took it down, but it returns, because I think it addresses other issues relevant to women.)
As Christmas approaches, I always think of Pam H.
On Christmas Eve, 1962, around 8 p.m., our front door buzzer announced a caller. I opened the door to see Pam, wife of Jimmy, whose family owned a large nursery and landscaping business. Jimmy had a profitable side gig plowing driveways, which in a Northern Michigan winter was profitable from November to mid-March.
I was puzzled. I'd never seen her at our house before, but she stood on the porch and commanded: "Your mother."
Mom showed Pam into the kitchen, and seated her in the breakfast nook. Something was said in that choice: not the barroom with its mural and harlequin floor, not even the living room's squashy sofa, but the kitchen, a cozy, female domain.
She was madder, as Mom would say, than a wet hen, weeping into a glass cup of nutmeg-dusted, rye-spiked eggnog, with Mom holding her hand, saying, "I know, I know." I was allowed to pull up a chair and have a "minor's version." I guess Mom figured I'd listen in from the top of the staircase anyway.
Jimmy and Pam had an early Christmas Eve dinner; they set out a few toys for their toddler and presented each other with their gifts. Then, Jimmy went out to plow so that families could get to church services or parties. After he finished, he'd head over to his brother's for a beer and a shot.
So Pam already had her gift, and produced it from her handbag: one pair of pantyhose, still in a J.C. Penney bag; no card, no wrapping. She inferred a message just the same: that she was not loved, appreciated or even seen: the pantyhose were Small and Pam was definitely not.
Pam had waited till Jimmy Jr. was soundly asleep, did the dishes, and headed three blocks over to our house, intending a 20-minute visit. Mom assured her that Jr. would be fine and topped up the cups. ("Can't fly on one wing" was another of her aphorisms.)
When Jimmy rolled in at midnight, he too had a visitor—Dad—who explained why Pam was sleeping off the eggnog in our guest room, and why Jimmy better shape up—unless by next Christmas, he wanted to be one of those sad sacks down at the Elks Club nursing a beer by himself.
Pam could have walked home safely (the town was a hive of deep social rest), but that time out was a useful intervention.
I rail against the overdone mania of Christmas spending, the ridiculous notion of going into debt because of a date on a calendar. But here's the thing: a cheap man is a dreadful partner. (Or woman, or non-binary: cheap knows no chromosome.)
Cheapness is paucity of generosity, and when habitual, a surefire predictor of a bleak future. (The inverse is true too, I've seen wildly lavish gifts given with no heart behind them.)
Frugality is fine and I suppose cheapness is a modus vivendi if both parties sign on for it; some couples find one another and pinch pennies to the end. But Pam's situation was different. On the lot, she worked side by side with Jimmy and his brothers; I see her still, hauling shrubs to trucks—and then put in a second shift of homemaking and child care. And that's why Mom found Jimmy unconscionably cheap.
That evening was the first time I saw how little women's work was valued; tiny seeds of feminism found soil. At fourteen I could not articulate it, but knew she deserved better.
Pam walked home at dawn. Mom suggested she leave the gift and its bitter memory behind, and said, "Give him another chance, you have a beautiful family."
As Christmas approaches, I always think of Pam H.
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| Home, ca. 1962 |
I was puzzled. I'd never seen her at our house before, but she stood on the porch and commanded: "Your mother."
Mom showed Pam into the kitchen, and seated her in the breakfast nook. Something was said in that choice: not the barroom with its mural and harlequin floor, not even the living room's squashy sofa, but the kitchen, a cozy, female domain.
She was madder, as Mom would say, than a wet hen, weeping into a glass cup of nutmeg-dusted, rye-spiked eggnog, with Mom holding her hand, saying, "I know, I know." I was allowed to pull up a chair and have a "minor's version." I guess Mom figured I'd listen in from the top of the staircase anyway.Jimmy and Pam had an early Christmas Eve dinner; they set out a few toys for their toddler and presented each other with their gifts. Then, Jimmy went out to plow so that families could get to church services or parties. After he finished, he'd head over to his brother's for a beer and a shot.
So Pam already had her gift, and produced it from her handbag: one pair of pantyhose, still in a J.C. Penney bag; no card, no wrapping. She inferred a message just the same: that she was not loved, appreciated or even seen: the pantyhose were Small and Pam was definitely not.
Pam had waited till Jimmy Jr. was soundly asleep, did the dishes, and headed three blocks over to our house, intending a 20-minute visit. Mom assured her that Jr. would be fine and topped up the cups. ("Can't fly on one wing" was another of her aphorisms.)
When Jimmy rolled in at midnight, he too had a visitor—Dad—who explained why Pam was sleeping off the eggnog in our guest room, and why Jimmy better shape up—unless by next Christmas, he wanted to be one of those sad sacks down at the Elks Club nursing a beer by himself.
Pam could have walked home safely (the town was a hive of deep social rest), but that time out was a useful intervention.
I rail against the overdone mania of Christmas spending, the ridiculous notion of going into debt because of a date on a calendar. But here's the thing: a cheap man is a dreadful partner. (Or woman, or non-binary: cheap knows no chromosome.)
Cheapness is paucity of generosity, and when habitual, a surefire predictor of a bleak future. (The inverse is true too, I've seen wildly lavish gifts given with no heart behind them.)
Frugality is fine and I suppose cheapness is a modus vivendi if both parties sign on for it; some couples find one another and pinch pennies to the end. But Pam's situation was different. On the lot, she worked side by side with Jimmy and his brothers; I see her still, hauling shrubs to trucks—and then put in a second shift of homemaking and child care. And that's why Mom found Jimmy unconscionably cheap.
That evening was the first time I saw how little women's work was valued; tiny seeds of feminism found soil. At fourteen I could not articulate it, but knew she deserved better.
Pam walked home at dawn. Mom suggested she leave the gift and its bitter memory behind, and said, "Give him another chance, you have a beautiful family."
Comments
Many people now decide not to exchange gifts in reaction to the "stuff" overload, but usually enjoy experiences of some kind together. In Québec, many extended families draw lots so that, in principle if not always in practice, one is buying a gift for a single family member.
By the way, this is also a splendid "short-short story".
We don't really "do" gifts anymore. Charitable donations to the in-laws, maybe a little hand-made gift for siblings, and the kids get cash (starving college students). My husband takes care of us all year round and that's gift enough for me <3. -Lily
re Pam and Jimmy: The landscaping business has stayed in the family, through three generations. Dad told me decades later that Jim's father had beaten all three sons as "discipline". I suspect Pam and Jim stuck it out, because I looked up their address and both names are still listed as residents. People can learn and grow at any point in life and I hope he did.
I was laughing about thoughtless gifts and it morphed into "bad-taste gifts", and noted that Canadian Tire of all the staid places was featuring a toilet plunger with the business end in the shape of a ... turd. Franchement... This is in their latest flyer.
Many men, not all by any means, are not good gift buyers. They don't lack the will, they lack awareness perhaps. So they need help...as you pointed out in a previous post. And I have known some women who so little value themselves that they give a message of...no I don't want anything, I can't think of anything. Years of that and then the explosion when the lousy gifts become too much. Not blaming Pam at all, that 'gift' was the lowest of the low. Just saying that sometimes people need strong clear signals about what you would like to see under the tree.
LauraH: It all comes down, in my mind, to whether he 'gets' the notion of giving, not in the material sense, but in that, too. Some partners just hate the idea of 'legislated giving' such as Christmas, Valentine's Day etc. OK, I see the point. Then I watch to see if the person is using it as an excuse, or enjoys giving at other times.
Another friend's partner took her to a concert of the kind of music he knew she loves, jazz, even though he is not a fan. A thoughtful, loving gesture.
Unknown: There is a message in that gift, and I'd like to know what she did. I had forgotten how telegrams could be used!
lagatta: Oh no. I'm surprised that was in an ad.
Lily: Many persons I know have discontinued Christmas gifts, and made the holiday a out caring for others, which is wonderful. And if you are going to give a gift, I think it should be one given with thought. I've written many posts over the past ten years on the deep and ancient rituals attached to giving. Lewis Hyde's "The Gift" is illuminating.
"Gift" also includes sharing one's talents and work. This blog is a gift. Every now and then someone says. thanks, which is lovely.