Dawn of the Jed Read Free Page A

holiday gifts past,” she started, looking squarely at Dad. “Because those who are not shamed by history are doomed to repeat their bad choices.”
    No matter how many times I heard this, I still loved it.
    “It began long before the arrival of the Rivers’ first-born, in 1989, our first Christmas together,” Mom continued. “It was a vacuum cleaner, a horrid choice no matter its seventeen detachable tools and fifteen-amp motor.
    “Hon, in my defense—” Dad began.
    “ SILENCE !” Mom yelled. “You know the rules.”
    Dad put his head down, his broad smile remaining.
    “Let us recall the George Foreman grill of 1994, given to me in my vegetarian phase,” Mom said. “Then the tickets to Phoenix for a flight in July, when my trip to the ER for heat stroke wiped out savings from the low rates hotels there charge to get people to visit when it’s deathly hot. And the gym membership of 2000, which gave me my answer to the eternal question: ‘Does this make me look fat?’”
    “I ate George Foreman-grilled celery for a month after that,” Dad whispered to me, as he did every year.
    “I do not have to mention the coffeepots, the garish jewelry, and the various clothes purchased in stores that fashion-sense forgot,” Mom said. “Which brings us to the reason for this unbreakable tradition. The exchange of gift lists.”
    Mom started with her list. It was tradition, and the gentlemanly thing to do.
    “A pastel blue sweater, medium, with long sleeves and V-neck,” she said. “Slippers, white, with terrycloth upper, size six. Angel Beauty perfume, four ounces with spray mist, purchased alone, not in a gift pack with soap, foot lotion, and hand sanitizer.”
    She looked at Dad. “No matter how much of a deal the clerk says you’re passing up,” she added.
    I leaned over to my dad and whispered, “I’ll take the perfume.” He nodded.
    “In addition,” Mom continued, “here are links should you want more details, or to order them online. Go off the list at your own peril.”
    Mom glared at Dad, then winked at me. This was part of tradition too. She trusted me to go off the list, like I did last year when I gave her a hand-painted plate that showed my version of the family around the tree. It was awful, but moms eat that kind of stuff up. She has it in a stand near her bed, which is cool because my friends never go in there.
    Dad held out his list and cleared his throat. Mom and I were prepared to cringe.
    Throughout the year, Dad took notes as he watched TV. Infomercials, mostly. Products that roasted or trimmed or juiced or cleaned or sliced and diced, he took it all down in detail. Each year Mom and I would get one thing on his list, but no more. We learned “As seen on TV” items hardly ever worked as seen on TV.
    “First, I would like The Amazing Bottle Cutter, which turns ordinary bottles into everything from everyday glasses to beautiful works of art,” he said. “I’d also like the Tumblestoner.”
    He reached into his pocket and placed a chunk of gravel on the table.
    “It takes millions of years for nature to turn a piece of gravel into a polished gem,” Dad said, who’d seen the commercial so many times he’d memorized it. “But the Tumblestoner does the same in just six months thanks to its patented tumbling action. Mount your new gems on the included tie tacks, necklaces, and earrings, and prepare for the envious looks of your friends.”
    I wanted to say, “Prepare to be unfriended on Facebook after giving everyone a rock,” but I knew not to interrupt Dad when he was on a roll.
    “Finally, I’d like the Flopchopper. Flop it to chop, flip it to chip. Its diamond-sharpened blades are easy to clean with the enclosed safety gloves. But wait, there’s more. Your first emergency room visit is covered, and up to seven stitches included for free.”
    I was leaning toward the Tumblestoner. The fewer sharp things around Dad, the better.
    “Jed, your turn,” Mom said. “Or do we