It was my 17-year-old sister Brig’s idea, as I recall, to go in together on a Christmas gift for our mother. My brother Jack, 13, and I, age 15, needed Brig more than she needed us, and not just because she could drive.
In a prior year, Jack had seen fit to gift our mom a beer mug for Christmas.This was problematic because Donna Kerrigan was not a big beer drinker.
Even had she been, she would not have quaffed from a novelty mug emblazoned with an expression crude enough to make a sailor blush.
My Christmas gift-giving track record wasn’t much better. Choosing quantity over quality, I once gave my mom perfume from a receptacle so large that to apply it, she almost needed to lift with her legs.
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