The Fairy Godmother

I have the gift for gifts. For the most part, I find unique and personal presents my friends and family love. I’m not sure if it’s a talent or just a combination of caring, listening and a dash of creativity. Whatever it is, it’s a skill I’m glad I to have developed. I think most anyone can learn to do it. It sure comes in handy this time of year!

While I wish I could be like the Fairy Godmother or genie in a bottle and grant my loved ones three wishes, the title of this post refers to a business I used to dream of—a boutique where I’d make this gift giving talent a paid gig as an owner/gift consultant. It didn’t take long for me to figure out; it wouldn’t be half as much fun without the personal connection to the recipient.

Some of these gifts I have given stand out in my memory.

· Joyceisms for Tim - When I first reconnected with my childhood sweetheart, now husband, I was influenced by a dream for the first Valentine’s Day gift I gave him in 36 years. I got one of those beautiful wooden boxes from Things Remembered, and I had engraved on the gold plate, Joyceisms for Tim. In the dream—the one that ultimately nudged me to look him up— he was a relationship book author. Tim was coming to a signing in my city where I’d see him for the first time in all those years. In his book, he wrote about me with great warmth as his foundational relationship. When he talked about someone doing things in his or her own inimitable style, he said it was to “Joyce it” after me. “Joyceisms” were things I had said or done that he found endearing. My Joyceisms in the wooden box were little typewritten slips of paper, rolled and banded into mini-scrolls. Each one is a reason why I love him. Under Joyceisms for Tim, I had engraved Valentine’s Day 1997. Not only does he enjoy them any day; he especially enjoys dipping into the box on days I’m crabby, when he’s wondering if I even like him!

· The Boundless Birthday Wish Box – This gift consists of a colorful, square box, the kind that can be found at stores like Michael’s or Beverly’s. Inside are a small spiral notebook and a birthday candle. (Michaels sells them in tins for travel, with Happy Birthday literally written on the lid, and they’re only $1.) Lastly, I made a card in MS Publisher on my computer that explains what the Boundless Birthday Wish Box is all about. Why celebrate your birthday a measly once a year? Especially when it’s all about the candle and the wish?

This box contains all the materials to make magical wishes any day of the year. Directions on the inside of the card advise: (1) Use the spiral notebook to write down and date your wish, also creating a wish diary; (2) Prop the wish diary open with the candle in front of it. (3) Say the wish to yourself—light the candle; (4) Blow it out after the universe has time to absorb your desire; and (5) Check back now and then to see how many wishes have come true. Note them on the back of each wish sheet. This one-of-a-kind blessing box costs only $3-5 to make and is priceless to the recipient.

· The Duct Tape Basket – One year, I was at a loss about what to get my brother-in-law who works hard as a handyman. I stumbled across a wallet on Amazon made out of duct tape material. A spark went off in my brain, and soon I was searching for books on uses for duct tape. I found one that had all kinds of artsy and practical ideas of what you can do with this versatile material. I added the book, the wallet (with a $10 Home Depot gift card in it), and a roll of duct tape to the basket. He was thrilled.

· Chicago Hot Dog “Picnic in Winter” Basket – Tim and I come from Chicago, and there’s no dog like a Chicago dog. His sister and her husband met there long before we all moved to California. My sis-in-law had just talked recently about a hot dog stand she missed from the old days. This inspired me. I looked up the fixin’s and recipe for a Chicago dog. I found information online about the hot dog stand and its history, along with the general history of Chicago-style hot dogs. Along with the recipe card and the hot dog history in a presentation folder, I added everything but the dogs and buns—bottled green peppers, celery salt, relish, and an onion—and a grocery store gift card to buy the rest of the ingredients fresh. My special card suggested an indoor wienie roast in the dead of winter to remind them of the warmth of summer days when we usually eat hot dogs. How much fun would that quick dinner be in front of a roaring fire? I guess you could even roast the dogs over it.

I love gift baskets, as you can tell, and I’ve done a lot of different themes, including one called “Our Favorite Things,” spinning on the tune from A Sound of Music. It contained all kinds of products and foods we particularly enjoy or find helpful like a jar opener and Goo Gone, that stuff that gets off those sticky price tags, or Downy Wrinkle Releaser, my favorite alternative to ironing. I always create a card that explains how it all fits together.

This year, I’m giving my sister- and brother-in-law a gift cluster I call Ménage à Tweet. (Nope, it has nothing to do with Twitter.) I found this wonderful bird feeder—a metal squirrel with bright orange leaves on the umbrella-style top. It caught my attention because my sister-in-law and I share a love for autumn. I’m including a package of gourmet birdseed. Finally, there’s a bottle of one of my favorite blend wines, Ménage à Trois by Folie à Deux Winery. The card will explain that this is winter entertainment. You feed the birds that didn’t fly south for winter; then, you open up the wine, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show as their fine feathered visitors go nuts at this high-end bird diner. Husband, wife, and the birds—a Ménage à Tweet.

Since I have no real time to be your Fairy Godmother, feel free to use any and all of these ideas. However, I am going to offer a special holiday gift to my readers. If you’re stumped for a gift idea on your shopping list, Comment and tell me something about the person. I’ll give my wand a quick flick and offer you some suggestions! I’d also like to hear about unique gifts you have given or received.

In my next life, I’m coming back as Santa Claus. Ask me if I like Christmas …


Photo: I always knew that this Christmas ornament I have had for eons would be the model for the logo of The Fairy Godmother boutique. The motto: Your wish is my command. Here she is on a wand too big for her wings, britches—whatever!

Turn on the Lights!

In the beginning was Creativity.

It expressed itself as Light.

It wasn’t just any light; it was the biggest bonfire in the universe. It shone so brightly, it was eternal. It could never be put out.

But being the Light in the Dark was lonely. Shining was fun, but it would be more fun to reflect the light off others and to share it.

So Creativity divided and cast off sparks of Itself.

But Creativity also spawned Intrigue. The sparks could not know they came from the bonfire. They had amnesia. The game would be to rediscover—using their own creativity—they were part of the Original Light … and, ultimately, to return to the Light.

Along the way, these individual sparks would almost touch the truth. They’d join with other sparks and create a brushfire. It was exhilarating!

As they lived their lives, made mistakes, and righted themselves on their course through experience, the sparks would—now and then—have a get a glimmer of a bonfire. These were times when they would join lights and create the biggest fire they had ever seen so far. They were times like births, deaths, weddings—anytime love is reflected in large quantities for them to feel a part of.

Ultimately, the good players got that everyone is a spark of the Great Altogether—of Creativity Itself.

Once the light dawned, their time on Earth was nearly as bright as it would be on the day they would return to the Biggest Bonfire in the Universe—to Creativity—and Love—Itself.

Here we are in the Season of Light. I hope I have just told a Creation Story that can appeal to anyone, regardless of belief.

In one way or another, all major religions celebrate light as we approach the darkest day of the year on Winter Solstice—December 21st. Some do it out loud; others more quietly.

The earth religions honor the Sun god at the Solstice and pray for his safe return, knowing all life evolves around light.

In a play on words too good to pass up, Christianity celebrates the birth of another Son … the one who told us, “You are the light of the world.” Certainly, he was a light, but notice, he made a point of telling us we are also the light.

Jews celebrate Chanukah—a miracle of light—of lanterns that kept burning and saved the day when they should have run out, a kind of loaves and fishes story with the element fire …

Lastly, Muslims celebrate Hajj, the annual trip to Mecca all adults of sound mind must do at least once in their lifetime. The ritual promotes the bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood by showing everyone is equal in the eyes of Allah. Sounds, to me, like an affirmation of the One Light.

So, you have to wonder why so many people on the planet still don’t get it.

Don’t let that get you down—the wars over differences in religion, opinion, or other ridiculous things we fight about as human beings.

This holiday season, do the one and only thing you can really do about it. Just go out there and let your light shine. Turn on your lights! Fire spreads in a divine domino effect …

… and remember every time you see a light, to be a light …

Ultimately, the good players will get that everyone is a spark of the Great Altogether—of Creativity Itself.


Once the light dawns, your time on Earth will be nearly as bright as it will be on the day you return to the Biggest Bonfire in the Universe—to Creativity—and Love—Itself.

Author's note: Some of the basic concepts in this essay come from channeled material called The Michael Teachings. If these ideas intrigue you, please visit this link or one of the many sites devoted to this spiritual slant on the universe that has always made so much sense to me. I was introduced to these teachings by Stephen J. Cocconi, who also has a fascinating site on the Teachings.

Not So Silent Night

1968: I’m home for Christmas break from the University of Wisconsin, spending another big holiday with my family. We celebrate big because we are blessed with two precious little ones—actually, one and a half. My nephew, Mikey, is a toddler. My niece, April, is nearly five months from birth—so tiny in her mom’s tummy, there’s no visible sign of her yet. This is the last time she’ll ever be subtle.

The previous year, we all survived the horrendous Chicago snowstorm of 1967. That, in and of itself, is some kind of miracle. It gave us monumental family bonding time. The entire metropolitan area was snowed in solid. We couldn’t leave the house for a week except to walk to the corner store and carry home necessities by sled. I can still hear my mother swearing about the SOBs who jacked up their prices, taking advantage of people during a crisis.

“Those jackasses! Bleeding money out of mothers that need milk for their babies…” These loud outbursts of cursing and carrying on and protectiveness of all mothers occurred at least three or four times a day—not only after my cousin Tony brought back what we needed on my classic flyer sled, but each time she heard these atrocities reported on the news.

By comparison, winter 1968 was a contrast in calm. Our family tradition is to celebrate on Christmas Eve—big dinner, presents, then Midnight Mass. Christmas Day is more of an aftermath for us—a time for the kids to play with toys and the grown-ups to veg in front of the TV, watching holiday specials. In this case, after the hoopla and snowla of ’67, we were looking forward to our first winter celebration since then and a more Norman Rockwell Silent Night.

Instead of doing Christmas at my parents’ in the suburbs, as usual, my brother Nick insisted on hosting us at his large apartment in Chicago. Nick was flamboyant. He loved anything new and different, so surely, this would not be an ordinary Christmas. He had only recently learned that he was going to be a father, and I think the gleam in his eye threw off his vision a bit.

Dinner seemed to start backwards. Nick spent an inordinate amount of time doing—and redoing—dessert.

“These ^&*^*()!! cream puffs! This is the third time I’ve done these damn things. I just can’t get ‘em right.”

Frustrated, Nick called Cousin Ginny. He had gotten the recipe from her. Lots of long pauses on his end of the conversation.

“Well, thanks a lot, Virginia,” he said, oozing sarcasm like cream in the supposed puffs that were flat as pancakes.

“What’s wrong?” Ma asked.

“She forgot to give me the magic ingredient—baking soda. That’s why they wouldn’t rise.”

Maybe his pregnant wife had him fixated on puffy things, but to his credit, Nick did not give up and whipped up one more batch of cream puffs while he roasted the chestnuts.

Since he didn’t have a fireplace, Nick, being creative, just stuck them in the oven.

Nick figured we should start eating while the nuts roasted, which were just a snack, anyway, given the built-in delays of his stubborn dessert. My mother’s Italian custom was a meatless Christmas Eve dinner, including spaghetti Aglio E Olio —pasta sautéed in garlic and olive oil. This was a side dish to baked fish and usually a green veggie like broccoli. Being an all-American meat-and-potatoes family, I can’t say any of us particularly loved this meal, but with dessert and presents to follow, we could stand once a year to have our taste buds under whelmed—except for maybe the garlic.

Mom was twisting spaghetti artfully around her fork, despite being a little tipsy from the wine at dinner. Rina, my sister-in-law, took breaks from stuffing her face due to prenatal indigestion.

The conversation was muffled, even quiet for us. It was a relief that everyone was giving “shop talk” a rest—discussing the family beauty shop business. Mom, Nick, Rina, and my sister Chris all worked there. I even worked there as a receptionist one summer vacation, till my prima donna brother with his hot temper let the F-word fly at me. Insulted, I quit on the spot. By now, this fact is hilarious, considering it was the ‘60s and every college kid, including me, found it to be the most versatile term of self-expression in the English language.

It was actually during a lull in the conversation—a rarity for the Mason family—that we were nearly blown out of our chairs by a loud explosion. It was coming from the direction of the oven.

Nick raced to the scene of the disaster, grabbing potholders en route. His version of chestnuts roasting on an open fire turned out to be chestnuts exploding in a closed oven. Smoke billowed and the inside the oven was beyond description.

“I think you’re supposed to pierce them with a knife first,” Mom said, between giggles. “It reduces the pressure.”

The rest of us had exploded into gales of laughter, leaving mirth on the walls like Oscar Madison’s linguine in The Odd Couple. It was hard to stop laughing long enough to go to Midnight Mass a couple hours later, especially lubed by the wine. I thought we’d have to have the bomb squad out. What a mess Nick had to clean up! Although he was hardly religious, he opted for Mass not mess, which he probably hoped Santa’s elves would clean up for him when they dropped by at midnight while we were at church.

Later, my sisters and I bunked out on blankets and mattresses on the floor and had a big family pajama party. Nick served Grasshoppers (he was incapable of anything simple), and I was looped by the time: the packages were torn open, we were sprinkled with holy water, and the instant replays of exploding chestnuts and flat cream puffs finally died down.

I am sure I dreamt my own unique Visions of Sugar Plums. I was on a sugar high on the sweetness of my wacky family, and how the greatest gift of all is the laughter we shared at our own human foibles.

Silent nights have their place, but so do memories with loud laughter.

Happy Holidays.