(I'm reposting this family Christmas story because it fits the season...)
We have a sordid tradition in my family, one that endures despite no one in the family really understanding why... I'll try to relate the original story of my mom's dumpster shoes, and hopefully someone out there will have a similar tale from the nuts in their family tree.
Back when I was growing up at home with my parents, it became a simple fact of life that my father couldn't have cared less about giving birthday or Christmas presents. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the Christmas season, often hanging outdoor lights around the eaves of the house, and once even built a very heavy wooden star, complete with electric lights outlining the star set in drilled holes throughout the design pattern. He would help mom, me, and my sisters, erect the Christmas tree into the tree stand, but as far as I can remember left all the tinsel and decorating to others. He would walk around the chaos grumbling with coffee or a beer in his hand, making a point to toss in a few "Bah, humbug!"s at every inappropriate moment. But it was obvious he got into the spirit of the season just a little, and that was kind of cool for us to see, since he was a grumpy curmudgeon the rest of the year. After a few beers, and perhaps a shot or two, he might even sing along with the Christmas carols on the stereo before calling it a night.
But he didn't go shopping, wrap presents, or do any of the commercialized aspects of the holiday. Attending mass was mom's thing, and being drug along with her to church for midnight mass or the early services on Sunday mornings was a fact of life at our house. But not for dad. He'd just wave goodbye and enjoy a couple hours of peace and quiet when the house was empty for those religious services, and never really made his religious beliefs known to us, if he had any. But Christmas did seem to brighten his mood a little, despite all the added expense and chaos.
The reason I mention all of this is to point out how odd it was for my father to give a Christmas present to my mom. Dad just didn't do presents, so if he had something for one of us, wrapped in holiday paper, it was a very big deal. This is the story of how mom came to receive "the dumpster shoes".
One afternoon I was with my father as he took a load of garbage across the bridge to the town's dumpster area. I can't remember why this was necessary, since we had garbage services at the house. But for whatever reason we had a load that needed to be deposited in a dumpster and I was drafted to assist. When we were almost through tossing the trash into one of the dumpsters, my dad noticed a pair of women's shoes leaned up against the bottom of the dumpster, as if someone had thought they might be of use to someone and didn't want to just toss them in with the refuse. Dad picked up the shoes, black patent leather with huge, ugly Pilgrim-like buckles across the instep, and asked if I thought my mom might like them for Christmas. We both laughed at the thought of mom opening a package and finding those horrible shoes, and we went on unloading the garbage from the station wagon into the dumpster. I thought nothing else about those shoes, and had no idea dad had put them into the back of the car.
On Christmas morning, everyone gathered around the tree and the unwrapping frenzy went on as it usually did, wrapping paper scattered everywhere, lots of laughter and excitement, and total chaos for about half an hour. That's how we did Christmas at our house when I was a kid, no elaborate ceremony for each and every present, just 'grab and growl' and move on to the next one. Seemed to get it over with quicker, and that was probably the reasoning behind our method.
After my sisters and I had opened our presents, and mom had opened hers from the kids, dad went to a closet and brought out a wrapped present and handed it to mom. "This is for you, dear." he said. She looked at him in surprise, seemed genuinely shocked at his gesture, and eagerly sat down to unwrap his gift. When she opened the shoebox and saw the dumpster shoes, her eyes widened, then narrowed, and she wasn't at all sure if she should be appreciative or laugh. There was a brief moment of confusion as she wrestled with the emotions of the moment... was he serious? Was this something she was supposed to like? Should she thank him, or hit him with those horrible shoes? When I saw the shoes I burst out laughing, and then dad laughed, and mom's confusion was immediately cleared up. It was, after all, just a joke.
She laughed, too, then put the shoes back into the box and said something along the lines of, "Just what I've always wanted!" and put the box down on the coffee table. We cleaned up the Christmas litter and the day went on as it normally did, with everyone gathering for a huge meal and then going off to play with whatever goodies we'd acquired that morning. Good times.
What we didn't know was that dad had taken the shoebox and put it back into the closet for safe keeping. No one noticed them missing, and the subject didn't come up again... until mom's birthday months later. You guessed it. Dad handed mom a birthday present, wrapped and everything. And she was totally unsuspecting when she opened the package and found those ugly Pilgrim shoes again. This time her laughter was a little more forced, and she made a point of tossing the shoes and their box into the garbage before the party ended.
Of course, dad was in charge of taking out the garbage, and the shoes were again secreted away into the closet for the next holiday, when there were again foisted upon my unsuspecting mother. That was the year she got angry about the shoes, and used the word "asshole" a time or two as she stuffed them down into the garbage yet again. But like Yankee relatives and herpes, those shoes kept coming back... holiday after holiday, birthday after birthday. No matter how determined my mother was to destroy them or make certain they would never again torment her, they always found their way back to her, wrapped and presented as if she were receiving a gift from the gods.
When my father passed away, one of the first things I did was find the shoes in his closet and take them home with me. Mom wasn't expecting them that following Christmas, and at the sight of them in their elaborate package she burst into tearful laughter, remembering dad and the tradition of the shoes. Then she stuffed them into the trash and we went on with Christmas.
My mom has since joined dad, and yet the shoes still make occasional appearances at our family's Christmas gatherings. They might not show up every single year, but they're still out there. One of my sisters will wrap them up and put them under the tree for one of her siblings, and that person will dutifully protect them until the next opportunity to surprise another sibling with them the following year. The funny thing is, if you don't see them for a year or two, they really do come as a surprise when they show up again.
I don't know who has them this Christmas, but wouldn't be surprised if they make another appearance. Somewhere out there is a person who put a pair of super-ugly shoes out by a dumpster, circa 1968, in Kingston, Tennessee, and that person has no idea how much laughter (and a few tears) those silly-ass shoes have brought to our family tree.
Merry Christmas!
