Secret Santa

One of the things I loved best about college was being in Boston. I fell in love with the city as well as with Cambridge, a T ride away or – better, if I had the time - an ever-fascinating bus ride along the length of “Mass Av” from the Back Bay across the Charles, past the imposing columns of MIT, through gritty downtown Central Square, and onward to the end of the route in the enticing bricked precinct of Harvard Square.

As the winter holidays approached students on the floor of the dorm where I lived organized a Secret Santa gift exchange. Those who wished to submitted their names on slips of paper and each in turn pulled a name. Each participant, according to inclination, ability, or whim, was to anonymously bestow on her recipient either a few little surprises over the course of several days, or a single gift at the end.

My imagination seized on the Secret Santa project, to the neglect of my studies. For a week or two it became the organizing principle to my walks, jaunts and excursions all over town, a scavenger hunt for inexpensive delights. I had pulled the name of a girl I didn’t know. Her room was at the other end of the hall from mine. I observed her now from a distance. She appeared to be a lovely young woman, graceful and unassuming. If we had ever had a conversation – it couldn’t have been much, I didn’t know her, and I kept my role as her secret Santa just that – secret. I was aware that someone had pulled my name too, a tantalizing thought but secondary. What excited me was the fun of the game. It became a gratuitous labor of love for me – a creative art project.

There was a quaint apothecary in Harvard Square, and I remember stopping there on my mad mission. Perhaps I purchased a tiny fragrant soap, or a charming packet of bath salts. A neighboring shop carried beautiful paper ephemera and imported candies. I may have selected for her French framboises drops – purchased as much for the tin with its exquisite botanical image as for the powdery pink sweets inside. I purchased or fashioned gift cards, and invented witty and whimsical rhymes to hint at each tiny accompanying gift. (I happily picked up on this charming custom which I had experienced with my Polish relatives in New Jersey; Christmases at their house, every package placed under the tree was accompanied with a cryptic, lyrical verse.) I may have given her a German gingerbread cookie with a paper image of Santa Claus, a tradition my parents had adhered to in observance of Saint Nicholas Day. Perhaps I purchased a festive card from the Gardner Museum or the MFA. I wouldn’t be surprised if I gave her a few gold gilt chocolate coins (reserving some for myself) and almost certainly, colorful foil-wrapped chocolate eggs accompanied by a little rhyme penned, I'm sure, in my tiniest best calligraphy.

I went a little overboard with this project because I enjoyed it so much, inventing new ways to delight this virtual stranger and entertaining myself in the process. I left the surprises, one a day for about a week, in the young woman's mailbox, taped to her door, hung on her doorknob, or placed in her washroom cubby, etc., etc. I kept game-faced but once or twice was delighted to observe at the far end of the hall her amazed discovery and her showing it to friends who gathered around her. I didn’t know the girl and didn’t ever expect to, but I took great pleasure in her delight and, in an unarticulated way, satisfaction in my own capability to create pleasure.

No one had as yet done anything for me. I knew that no one could possibly have gotten quite so into the project as much as me, so I knew not to expect much. In the end, a couple of large dime-store candy canes appeared with my name on them.

At the appointed hour the young woman who had been the object of my creative expressions learned my identity and thanked me very warmly. I could tell that she was touched by my efforts. She herself had pulled a name, not mine. I think she was quite wise. I am left all these years later with the impression that she recognized the bittersweet aspect of the gift exchange, how one person - as, so often, in love - will give more than the other, that it’s almost bound to be inherently unfair that way. I have a lingering impression that the young woman said to me gently, you know, these things get noticed and remembered - it counts.

Months later I took myself out to lunch one afternoon at the Magic Pan on Newbury Street. I’m sure I ordered crêpes aux coquilles Saint Jacques, my favorite at the time, bay scallops in a seasoned cream sauce. The young woman entered the restaurant with her mother and they took a table a few over from mine. I finished my meal and as I was leaving the young woman graciously gestured for me to come to her table. She introduced me to her mother. “She’s the one who was my incredible Secret Santa.” Her mother smiled at me and said oh!, with a look of recognition. She knew just who her daughter meant.