On Black Friday, Hope and Promise

There's a loud and vigorous public debate about what's come to be called "Black Friday," with spillover about stores opening on Thanksgiving Day. Everyone seems to have a strongly held opinion. I don't -- well, not one I'm going to share in public.

What I do have is vivid memories of shopping on what, in a simpler time, we called "the day after Thanksgiving." 

The holiday itself was a bit of a trial for me as a child -- my mother and grandmother were atrocious cooks who genuinely hated being in the kitchen. My father, an excellent and enthusiastic cook, did what he could, but was limited by my mother's insistence that she and Neenie had everything under control (only true if you mean "controlled burn") and that Daddy should sit down and relax and watch football. (It wasn't until much later that she admitted she was trying to adhere to the gendered expectations of the era, but hell, arson is arson and she should have just let Daddy do it, "wifely responsibility" be damned.) Eventually, to everyone's relief, I took over the cooking, freeing Mother and Neenie to fuss and fret over the nuances of table setting. They managed to spend hours on it, even for our tiny family. Daddy watched football until the end of his days. 

So we got through it. Every year we got through it.

But the day after Thanksgiving -- ohhhhhhhhh, that was a holiday! Mother and Neenie had pie for breakfast and drew up battle plans for their assault on the old apple boxes in the garage that stored approximately 748,962 Christmas-tree ornaments. Daddy shrewdly taught me from earliest toddlerhood that the smart kids fled that scene.

As soon as we could politely break away from breakfast, we'd get dressed up -- yes, DRESSED UP -- for a Big Day Out. Somehow he always managed to "find" a dress from his back-to-school garment district raid on M. David Children's Wear that he'd "forgotten" to give me in September. Most years, I'd beg to wear my "shiny blacks" (patent-leather Mary Janes) with my spiffy new dress. Mother would resist ("Jack, she'll get them all scuffed!") and Daddy would wear her down ("Sunshine, I'm taking the child SHOPPING, not running through the mud!").


He was the handsomest Daddy ever in a white shirt, tie and jacket (usually Harris tweed). Near the moment of departure, Neenie would call me into her room, close the door, and give me some shopping money, along with strict, whispered instructions not to tell Mother and Daddy. While Daddy was putting the last touches on his Windsor knot and cufflinks, Mother would drag me into my room "because I need to talk to you, young lady," punctuated by a laser-sharp kelly-green stare. Then she'd give me some money, along with similar instructions not to tell Daddy and Neenie. In the car, Daddy brought home the three-peat -- "Don't tell Mother and Neenie I gave you this, but you're going to need a little Christmas money," he'd say with a wink. 

I don't remember the term "mall" from those years, but we'd go to one of the nicer "shopping centers," sometimes Fashion Island or South Coast Plaza; sometimes Anaheim Plaza (when Robinson's was still an independent store, and a very nice one). My dad had an excellent eye, and always picked out clothes and accessories for Mother and Neenie that fit beautifully and looked gorgeous. He got his "Sunshine" her favorite perfume every year, and dressy white gloves for my grandmother. 

He'd help me pick out my gifts for them. My mother collected pins, most of which I still have, and I loved to browse through them for her. Daddy taught me to be persnickety -- it was always costume jewelry, of course, but it had to be tasteful costume jewelry. Nothing else would do for his Sunshine. Neenie always got a new robe, for which the overwhelming selection criterion was softness. Daddy was good at that too. 

But what stands out isn't the stuff -- there was always excellent stuff, some years more, some years less, but always thoughtfully chosen with the recipient's pleasure in mind. But, now, the stuff matters so much less than the intangible moments. One year the Loara High School choir was singing at Anaheim Plaza and Daddy insisted we stop and listen. I thought I was hearing angels; to my ear, they were flawless. I can still hear their "Adeste Fideles" and still see them on the risers in concert dress. 

Another year, some youth organization was doing a "canned presents" fundraiser. Whatever you bought, within reason, could be sealed in a "can" for a few dollars. My dad thought that was the cutest gag he'd ever seen, so he had a sweater for Mother and a blouse for Neenie "canned." During the great Christmas Eve gift-opening extravaganza, he eventually got around to telling them there was a little can opener attached to the bottom of each can, but not before memorializing their giggling frustration in Polaroid. 

The best day after Thanksgiving lunches were usually at one of the Knott's Berry Farm restaurants, to which my dad would happily drive from almost anywhere. Lunch with Daddy was always fabulous -- well, except for the year I got chicken-liver gravy on a white linen dress. But my dad said he'd handle Mother's chagrin over the stain, and I guess he did, because I'm still here.

The finale was always the very best part. Every year, my dad bought each of us a Christmas pin, and every year it was the last thing he did on that shopping trip. Some were a bit rhinestone-ish; most were more subdued. But every single one was beautiful to a little girl, and Daddy had such fun picking them out. The man was capable of getting into actual conversations with sales ladies over the merits of a gold ornament pin vs. a green Christmas tree pin. We all acted duly surprised when he gave them to us that night as we stood around admiring what Mother and Neenie had done with the Christmas tree.

Everybody's gone now, but I still have those pins and I wear them happily, despite missing rhinestones and faulty pinning mechanisms. Those pins tell the story of my family's holidays -- sure, it was a flawed family with heartache and hurt amid the joy -- but the love has never left, and I believe it never will.

And I suppose that's why I take a fairly benign view of "Black Friday." I guess a part of me wants to believe there's a dad out there spending the whole day teaching his little girl how to give from the heart. And I'm sure there is -- I'm sure there are hundreds of them. If you know of anything to the contrary, promise you'll never tell me.