Dear Blog Reader:
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The 1000
piece New Yorker cover jigsaw puzzle was no match for the high visual acuity
guests. Even the 1700 clue crossword puzzle found inside the newspaper among
the black Friday ads, picked up at a gas station early Thanksgiving morning
while on a mission to rescue Ben from the airport as he made his escape from
the tempting 68 degree highs of Phoenix, fell to the collection of wordsmiths
assembled for the weekend. It was close though. The action became frenetic late
Saturday as it suddenly dawned on us that those four days would not last
forever. Our 96 hours were starting to wane. Two turkeys, eight pies, a bushel
basket of noodles, two pecks of stuffing, and 248 rolls; that was the best Thanksgiving
ever; or at least the best this year.
However, all was not bliss in the Sharritt household. All of
the hunters had assembled, and the Assassin deer folded back into fog of war.
It was as if the tornados three weeks ago sucked them all away into another
dimension. I know that they are out there somewhere. I have seen their fresh
droppings scattered hither and yon. It appears that the wild raging hormones
have settled down, allowing them to settle into the flora and fauna. Next
year’s replacements are in the oven; a promise that winter will not last
forever. Nature’s bridge arching over the bad times, these next 200 days the
fawn will stay inside, nice and toasty. Next April and May, they will head
outside and play assassin deer games during the lush green summer months. Black
Friday was some where in the middle of it all along with the obligatory
Wal-Mart fiasco.
We knew Black Friday was coming. We had been warned by the
morally superior. We had been lured by the decadent. We had been shown videos
of past bad behavior. Friends had shared stories of a guy who knew a guy who
maced a fellow low price hunter for a $100 32 inch tv. You could see the tear
of admiration well up in the storyteller’s eye as he recalled the valiant
hunter’s admonition to his wife. “Here, stand in line and get that TV. Then
come post bail. It is so worth it.”
I just want to say that I get it. I understand. A deep need
and drive exist here. Our fallen angels have been identified and awakened every
year with millions of advertising dollars. We flock and follow to the Pied
Piper song. I get it.
After watching hours of football in the weeks leading up to
Black Friday, it appears that there are actually three fallen angels that are
summoned each year. The first is that giving angel; the one who wants to give
and give; whose mantra is “it’s for the children.” This person’s payoff is that
moment when the child opens the present; their eyes fly open wide, and they
start hopping up and down gasping for breath in between shrieks of delight. Any
reaction that does not meet this preconceived notion is seen by the giver as a
failure; not of the receiver’s gratitude but of the giver’s abilities to please
those around them.
The ads that I have seen targeting the givers have focused
on using old home videos of children going bonkers in reaction to the new bike,
the new computer game, or the new box the bike came in. There used to be old
home movies from the Sharritt archives of a bouncing 5 year old Roger. I have
no idea what the gift was but it sure made me happy, or I was completely strung
out on breakfast pastry and Santa adrenalin.
The second fallen angel to be awakened is the hunter of
falling prices. This fellow traveler carries a huge adding machine toting up
the savings. I don’t get this one. My lack of intuitive understanding of the
hunter’s motivation is my fault. I am too lazy or too ADHD to stalk my quarry. The
idea of reading 3 dozen newspaper ads, scouring a dozen internet sites,
developing a plan of attack using a spreadsheet that does the time, distance
and savings calculus is daunting. The hunter loves these tasks. Their skill has
been honed through multiple campaigns of Black Friday shopping. Every lost
parking spot, every lost deal, every “we’re sorry no rain checks” has become a
painful teacher. They are wizened hunters. I am more of a gatherer than a
hunter. I am perfectly willing to walk along through the woods and stumble
across something that I know my loved ones will bounce up and down in delight
in recognition of my thoughtfulness and the clever gift which I purchased for
them. But the hunter loves the competition; keeping track of the savings, bagging deals, and accumulating tales of
daring do to share around the water cooler on Monday morning with mere mortals
who will have to pick the carcass of 5% discounts the following week.
Like Ebenezer’s final ghost, the last of the fallen angels
to be summoned is the scariest for me. It is scary because as I look inside the
cowl hiding its face, I see my own. My Christmas Black Friday is about saving
enough money so I can buy me what I want. I am not proud of it. It is sad. You
can shake your head back and forth and say tsk, tsk, tsk. The phrase “it’s the thought that
counts is lost on me. I say this because it is true for me. I was given the
wish book every year. I circled and folded pages. I was good. I was
disappointed. We were poor; probably poorer than I ever knew. So electric race
sets, M16 with grenade launchers, and BB guns, were not under the tree. Rather
these were replaced with Hot Wheels, Play Dough pumping stations and cloths. Cloths???
Cloths were one of life’s necessities not a gift. It is true. I have an
ungrateful heart. To make matters worse, after not receiving what I had asked
for, I would go to friend’s houses and covet the race tracks, M16 with grenade
launchers, and BB guns. Today, I can tell you which garage in Madison County
You can imagine the pull and tug of the Black Friday ads
when you have two of the fallen angels deep within your breast. If you have the
desire to protect the objects of your affection from disappointment and the
desire to right past “wrongs” for your own gifts, Katie bar the bank account. It
is going to be a long January, paying for all of your shopping therapy.
It is a season of hope though. Over time, I have seen my fallen
angels. I have learned that the holes created by experience and temperament are
not fillable. I could use the entire treasury to buy things to fill it, and it
would all disappear into the void; filling the hole is a fool’s errand. It
helps to know that it is just a hole. Let it be. Recognize it. Recognize that
the tug of the advertiser is natural but not helpful. Just let it be and kindle
the embers of gratefulness. Someday, the fire may become large enough to even
things out.
Take care,
Roger.
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