I guess we all have that gift.
The gift we never wanted from a well-meaning relative.
An ugly sweater. A hideous vase. A picture of the person who gave us the picture in the first place.
My gift is...the clown.
When I was a kid, I went through a five-second phase where I was slightly interested in clowns. This was followed by a twenty year period (still ongoing) where I found clowns to be creepy.
Unfortunately, my grandmother missed the deadline.
For my sixth birthday, she bought me a clown doll.
Keyword: Doll.
This was not a toy. It was not something you could play with. One of my grandmother's favorite hobbies is giving gifts to children that they can't touch.
"Leave it in the box," she yells, "That's going to be worth money someday!"
None of the "leave it in the box" gifts my grandmother has purchased for me or my siblings over the years has ever ended up being worth anything, and most of them ended up getting lost in moves or cleaning purges anyway.
Except for the clown. I've never been lucky enough to misplace the clown.
It's about a foot high, held up on a stand with brown hair, and an incredibly flamboyant outfit--even by clown standards. If Liberace were a clown, he would be this clown.
I remember opening it on my birthday and seeing my Mom put on the poker face she used whenever she thought a gift was silly or inappropriate.
"Ohhhhh," she said, "Loooook Kev, a...clown."
It had to be displayed prominently in my room so that whenever my grandmother would come over, she'd see it placed right above my bed.
Have you ever tried to sleep with a clown doll directly above you? I'm convinced it works as a sort of anti-dream catcher. It snags nightmares out of the air, and flings them down at your head. I didn't get a good night's rest until I started putting it in my sock drawer every night.
The opportunity to get rid of the clown came when I moved into my new apartment. I could have conveniently left it in a box by the side of the road with a five dollar bill and a note saying "Please show this creepy clown a good home."
Instead, I took it with me.
Maybe it's because a few days before I moved, a friend of mine lost her grandmother. I started thinking about all the things my grandmother's given me over the years, and how much I'll want those things when she's gone.
By this time, most of the fake clown hair had fallen out, and the multi-colored costume had become so faded that now the costume was more Grey Gardens than Liberace.
When my grandmother came to see my apartment for the first time, she noticed the clown on top of my bookcase. (It's a fairly tall bookcase, so as long as I didn't look up, it was like the clown wasn't even there. Still, I could feel its eyes on me at all times.)
My grandmother saw the clown and said--"You still have that?"
I smiled--feeling like such a good grandson. I appreciated the gift my grandmother had given me so many years ago.
"Why don't you throw it out?," she said, "It's disgusting."
I didn't understand. Didn't she want me to save it? Wasn't it going to be worth money someday? What about the sentimental value?
"I bought that thing for five bucks at a yard sale," she said, and then with a shrug--"I guess it could be worth something. I hope you cleaned it though. God only knows the germs that were on it."
I was stunned.
"It looks even creepier now that it's bald. So, where are we going to eat?"
I'd like to say that since that conversation I've thrown out the clown...but I haven't.
Maybe my grandmother wouldn't care if I did, but now thinking about it makes me laugh and reminds me not to take things so seriously.
I have, however, moved it to the back of my closet.
Between you and me, I think it's much happier there.
The gift we never wanted from a well-meaning relative.
An ugly sweater. A hideous vase. A picture of the person who gave us the picture in the first place.
My gift is...the clown.
When I was a kid, I went through a five-second phase where I was slightly interested in clowns. This was followed by a twenty year period (still ongoing) where I found clowns to be creepy.
Unfortunately, my grandmother missed the deadline.
For my sixth birthday, she bought me a clown doll.
Keyword: Doll.
This was not a toy. It was not something you could play with. One of my grandmother's favorite hobbies is giving gifts to children that they can't touch.
"Leave it in the box," she yells, "That's going to be worth money someday!"
None of the "leave it in the box" gifts my grandmother has purchased for me or my siblings over the years has ever ended up being worth anything, and most of them ended up getting lost in moves or cleaning purges anyway.
Except for the clown. I've never been lucky enough to misplace the clown.
It's about a foot high, held up on a stand with brown hair, and an incredibly flamboyant outfit--even by clown standards. If Liberace were a clown, he would be this clown.
I remember opening it on my birthday and seeing my Mom put on the poker face she used whenever she thought a gift was silly or inappropriate.
"Ohhhhh," she said, "Loooook Kev, a...clown."
It had to be displayed prominently in my room so that whenever my grandmother would come over, she'd see it placed right above my bed.
Have you ever tried to sleep with a clown doll directly above you? I'm convinced it works as a sort of anti-dream catcher. It snags nightmares out of the air, and flings them down at your head. I didn't get a good night's rest until I started putting it in my sock drawer every night.
The opportunity to get rid of the clown came when I moved into my new apartment. I could have conveniently left it in a box by the side of the road with a five dollar bill and a note saying "Please show this creepy clown a good home."
Instead, I took it with me.
Maybe it's because a few days before I moved, a friend of mine lost her grandmother. I started thinking about all the things my grandmother's given me over the years, and how much I'll want those things when she's gone.
By this time, most of the fake clown hair had fallen out, and the multi-colored costume had become so faded that now the costume was more Grey Gardens than Liberace.
When my grandmother came to see my apartment for the first time, she noticed the clown on top of my bookcase. (It's a fairly tall bookcase, so as long as I didn't look up, it was like the clown wasn't even there. Still, I could feel its eyes on me at all times.)
My grandmother saw the clown and said--"You still have that?"
I smiled--feeling like such a good grandson. I appreciated the gift my grandmother had given me so many years ago.
"Why don't you throw it out?," she said, "It's disgusting."
I didn't understand. Didn't she want me to save it? Wasn't it going to be worth money someday? What about the sentimental value?
"I bought that thing for five bucks at a yard sale," she said, and then with a shrug--"I guess it could be worth something. I hope you cleaned it though. God only knows the germs that were on it."
I was stunned.
"It looks even creepier now that it's bald. So, where are we going to eat?"
I'd like to say that since that conversation I've thrown out the clown...but I haven't.
Maybe my grandmother wouldn't care if I did, but now thinking about it makes me laugh and reminds me not to take things so seriously.
I have, however, moved it to the back of my closet.
Between you and me, I think it's much happier there.
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