It's The Thought That Counts

listen:

I love the idea of making my holiday gifts as a testimonial of my love for family and friends.

I flip through the do-it-yourself craft sections in magazines and stare at the gorgeous photographs.

The tempting projects appear so charming, so elegant.

And so harmless.

It all started with candles.

I thought candles for Christmas would make a simple but considerate gift.

Pack some aluminum foil at the bottom of painted terra cotta pots.

Pour in colored-wax mixed with dashes of nutmeg and cinnamon.

And voila! holiday scents waft through the house.

I didn’t realize nutmeg and cinnamon are mildly flammable.

Nor did I realize that some wicks shouldn't be used for candles made of wax.

Nor did I realize that one shouldn't decorate a vessel of flame with oil paints.

I didn’t even think about the meaning of the word “accelerant”.

The holiday cards I received that year hinted at the wreckage wrought by my good intentions.

One letter described a “close call” after an Aunt lit some candles too close to the Christmas tree.

“Those flames can jump!” she marveled.

My parents were thankful someone was home when the wick burned straight down their candle.

The foil didn’t hold, and a pool of fiery nutmeg-wax spread across the table.

The next year I tried my hand at handmade Peppermint soap and lemon-oatmeal facial scrub.

The oatmeal turned moldy during shipping.

And then my sister called to tell me that the tingling sensation from the peppermint soap quickly turned to burning.

I spent Christmas day calling people to tell them not to use it on their faces.

Luckily, my sister's red splotches disappeared after a few days.

My biscotti broke my father’s tooth.

My bath salts caused rashes and awkward infections.

My simmering potpourri caused popping projectiles of boiling herbs.

And an asthma attack.

I went a bit overboard with the peppermint oil for a peppermint foot soak.

And Christmas morning was filled with watering eyes and cleared sinuses.

I persevere.

My poor friends and relations suffer.

I imagine relatives treat my packages like a letter bomb.

Carefully, oh so carefully place package in garbage without disturbing the contents.

My dad suggested I start a product line called “crafts de muerte," crafts of death.

I could send out catalogs to assassins for those times a hit needs to appear accidental.

The heart-broken or homicidal could exact revenge during the holidays.

Everyone knows I mean well, that these gifts are meant to spread joy, not rashes and house-fires.

And thumbing through craft books at the bookstore I think, “how could anything go wrong with this project?”

Until I find out.

How I want the thought to count.

I want these gifts to be useful and treasured.

At my parents house I saw my first attempts at bath oils and salts on display over the bathroom sink.

The coloring in the oil had long separated and the wax I (over)used to seal the glass bottles were hardened and yellowed blobs.

So much time had passed the contents in the glass bottles looked like medical specimens at a creepy carnival.

Or maybe they always looked that way.

Yet, they were still displayed, lovingly placed on a shelf.

Unopened.