I love Christmas, all the twinkling lights on Broad Street, the Augusta Ballet's performances of The Nutcracker, the aroma of gingerbread embroidering the air.
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Yes, I love Christmas; I'm just not very good at creating Christmas.
I would go as far as to say that I'm Christmas-challenged, tinsel-impaired. Christmas lights tangle in my wake, and eggnog sours. I choose gifts, not because they suit the recipient, but because they are easy to wrap. If you get a gift from me, it will almost certainly be square.
My mother doesn't understand my deficiency. She is Christmas competent. Mistletoe is in her blood. Each year she relishes the search for the best-shape tree, the tastiest oyster stew recipe and the bushiest poinsettia.
So how did she beget a daughter who considers white fudge Oreos to be Christmas cookies? Who briefly flirted with becoming a Buddhist just to get out of decorating her tree? Whose idea of creating a holiday mood is to spray spice-apple scented air freshener around the room?
It wouldn't have been a problem if I'd been born a boy. Christmas expectations for males are much more modest. After they've wrestled the Christmas tree into the stand and dropped the turkey into the deep fryer, they can call it a season. The song isn't titled God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen for nothing.
As a female, I'm expected to be handy with holly. The pressure gets worse every year. People take Christmas decorating very seriously these days. In some neighborhoods, the competition is so fierce that if you are unwilling to transform your yard into a holiday fairyland, you better move or have a menorah burning in your window.
For the past few years, my mother has taken pity on me and has started "helping" me with Christmas. It started small. A poinsettia left on my doorstep. A red ribbon on my mailbox.
With each season she's "helped" me a little more. This year, elaborate Victorian stockings hang from my fireplace and swags of garland and ribbon festoon the picket fence outside my house. Holly and berries drip from every surface, and my tree rivals Rockefeller Center's in its seasonal splendor.
What was my part in this year's holiday extravaganza? I followed on my mother's heels, holding the wire cutters.
All of the sudden I have one of the most festive houses on the block, and people are looking at me with new eyes. My fiance has suggested that I wrap all the presents this year "as I'm so good at that sort of thing." A couple of friends have asked me to help with their own decorations because I have such a "flair."
My son (who should know better) even had the courage to ask for a Christmas present this year that wasn't square.
"No," I said in protest. "You don't understand. This isn't me. This is my mother's handiwork. I just held the wire cutters."
"Oh, don't be so modest!" they all said.
As for my mother, she's already plotting Easter decorations.
"Honey, what would you think of an egg topiary for a centerpiece? And maybe a string of pastel lights? Don't worry. I'll be glad to help you."
AUGUSTA RESIDENT KARIN GILLESPIE IS THE AUTHOR OF BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR. SHE CAN BE REACHED THROUGH HER WEB SITE AT WWW.KARINGILLESPIE.COM.
