My mother started recycling when almost nobody else did it. Back in the 1960s, I’d get a letter from her in a recycled bank envelope, my address scotch-taped to the envelope window from the inside. She saved wrapping paper to re-use. Each Christmas, she collected all the paper, smoothed it out, carefully folded it, and took it home for re-use the next year. In the 1970s, my ex-husband and I had a stamp made for her that said, “Recycled by Judy,” which she used well into the 1990s.
My wife Tanya is the exact opposite, at least as far as package-wrapping is concerned. If she could have had a career as a package-wrapper, I have no doubt she would have pursued that instead of lawyering. She takes glee in making curly-cue ribbons––huge, abundant, colorful. Often, the ribbon is bigger than the present itself.
My mother adored Tanya’s ribbons. Every Christmas, she brought a re-cycled bag from home to collect ribbons from each present as it was opened.
Later, I learned that she took the ribbons and tied them to the doorknobs of her friends’ units at her retirement community for their birthdays.
She died on January 23, 2020, just a few months short of her 100th birthday and only days before we knew how bad Coronavirus would be.
Yesterday, February 10th, was my 71st birthday. As usual, Tanya wrapped my present, this time in electric orange tissue-paper with a big pile of multi-colored ribbons. We both knew what was in the package: we’d bought it together. Still, it got wrapped.
Last night, I was about to put the ribbon into the bags by the door to take to my mother. But then, I remembered.