Where's My Wand?: One Boy's Magical Triumph Over Alienation and Shag Carpeting Read Online Free PDF Page A

it on the pile of items that would require pressing (which included anything with a cotton fill), she sighed and mumbled under her breath, “One more thing I have to find a place for.”
    Our father poured himself another glass of Mateus. I labored to see how many pieces of unrefrigerated sausage I could wedge into my mouth. Val examined her hot rollers with an intensity usually reserved for the contents of a nuclear warhead.
    In an effort to remind Mother of the holiday’s true meaning, we decided to keep the wine coming. One drink, and Val and I would spring into action, topping her glass off at a precipitously high level that resulted in her having to lean over to sip from the rim like a dog at a water bowl. This constant refilling made it almost impossible for her to track the amount she was consuming and would transform her, we prayed, into Shirley Partridge, groovy mother to a brood of wildly talented kids.
    As each package was opened, the wrapping paper was passed to Dad, who stuffed it into a plastic Hefty bag, which, once full, was twist-tied shut and set near the stairs for immediate removal. The bows—which had been Scotch-taped onto the packages—were placed carefully into a separate bag for reuse, since, as Mother reminded us, “You only use the ‘sticky’ for special occasions.”
    After what seemed like hours but had, in reality, been about twenty minutes, it was time for Dad’s “showstopper” gifts to Mother. Val and I glanced at each other, two soldiers heading into battle. I closed my eyes momentarily and envisioned myself in full Endora regalia in one last-ditch effort to summon the magic.
    Dad handed Mother a large, professionally wrapped box.
    “I hope you didn’t pay someone to wrap this,” she announced. “That’s a ghastly waste of money, and you are unemployed.” She lifted the top off the box and gasped slightly. Inside was a mink stole.
    Almost in a daze, she pulled it out and wrapped it around her shoulders, stroking it lovingly. A tear came to her eye. Dad winked at Val and me. Nothing celebrates the Birth of Jesus like a dead animal.
    Mother crossed the room and opened the doors of the closet Dad had built into one corner of the basement. She gazed at herself in the full-length mirror that hung inside. As she twirled around, admiring herself from various angles, she declared, “Maybe next year you can get the rest of the coat.”
    With that, I excused myself to turn over the Christmas album on the record player. Val slunk away to heat up her curlers. Dad quietly began to shave the dried-out layer off each remaining slice of cheese.
    “Just out of curiosity,” Mother added, “where am I supposed to store this thing? It has to be kept cool.”
    Dad replied, “Well, it’s about forty-eight degrees in this basement. Isn’t that cool enough?”
    The Christmas tree turned blue, red, green and made its way back to yellow. The only sound was the Ray Conniff singers imploring us to “Count Your Blessings.” Mother took another slug of wine. “Well, it is a lovely fur, what there is of it. Thank you.”
    Dad, satisfied that this was as high a praise as was likely to occur, summoned Val and me back to the scene of the crime. The final gift was at hand.
    With a flourish, he ceremoniously pulled the paper off a large oil painting— A Winter’s Day by Milton Skudley, a Holiday Inn Liquidation Art Sale winter scene for which he had paid the astronomical sum of three hundred dollars in twelve easy installments. This painting was intended to become the centerpiece of the room no one was allowed to enter unless Billy Graham or Elvis were present—the living room.
    As the wrapping paper was shed, Dad, Val and I glanced at one another in anticipation. Days earlier, he had told us that Mother had personally pointed out this painting at the Holiday Inn. Unlike the stole, this gift would be a slam dunk. The evening would end with hosannas and glad tidings as we carried the Hefty bags to the