The year that a few friends and I started the Hundred Dollar Holiday program, several business-page columnists leveled the G-word—Grinch—at us because we were asking our families and our friends to limit their holiday spending to a hundred dollars.
So it was with some trepidation that I reread my daughter's copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. As we all know, at the end of the story Whoville celebrates Christmas even without their presents and trees.
But Dr. Seuss' message went deeper for me. The more we progressed on our campaign the more we came to understand why people were responding. It wasn't because we wanted a simpler Christmas at all. It was because we wanted a more joyous Christmas.
Christmas had become something to endure at least as much as something to enjoy. Instead of an island of peace, it was an island of bustle. The people we talked to wanted more out of Christmas: more music, more companionship, more contemplation, more time outdoors, more love. And they realized that to get it, they needed less of some other things: not so many gifts, not so many parties, not so much hustle.
There's nothing magic about a hundred dollars. And, obviously, big families may decide to spend more. But the hundred-dollar goal works well as a check, a way of saying that your commitment to a better Christmas goes beyond merely telling yourself that this year will be different. After all, there is no ideal Christmas, only the Christmas you decide to make as a reflection of your values, desires, affections and traditions.
So make this Christmas the one you've always wanted. The first step will likely involve explaining to others what you want to do. Tell your family that you're not criticizing past celebrations, rejecting childhood memories or giving up traditions. Tell them instead that Christmas means so much to you that you want to make it as joyous as possible.
If people worry about a transformed Christmas, it's often because they don't know what to expect. So when you talk with relatives, make sure you are free with suggestions about new kinds of gifts—everyone wants to give something. Tell grandparents that you'll record them reading a storybook so your child will be able to hear them read it over and over; urge uncles and aunts to give a trip to the museum instead of a robot dinosaur.
Don't be surprised if it takes a few years to readjust. Many families begin by drawing names each Christmastime so that everyone has only one present to buy for the next year. In most of the families I've talked with, though, people have come to love making some of their presents. No one expects you to build a gorgeous bookshelf or knit an evening dress. I can cook, for instance, and so one year I made bagels—which turn out to be simple to make, a dozen at a time, with a mixer and a kettle of boiling water. The next year it was spicy chicken sausage. My mother makes calendars for the family, each month featuring a snapshot she's taken. And then there's my favorite present that my wife always gives me. She draws a picture on a circle of white paper and for $15 a company in Texas turns it into a plastic plate. All year I look forward to it, wondering if each small event of our lives will "make the plate."
Our daughter's godmother and her daughters made an alphabet book one year, twisting their bodies into the shape of each letter and then taking photographs. One year my mother wrote out all my grandmother's favorite recipes in a book. You can make a card game of family trivia, or pass along a piece of jewelry that has some important connection—small children will take quite seriously the idea that Grandma wore this brooch at her wedding, or that this was the baseball glove Grandpa used in high school. Instead of buying new ornaments for the tree, you can use old toys as decorations, each one bringing back memories.
Gifts of time are often even better: a coupon for a monthly backrub, a gift certificate entitling the bearer to a trip to the zoo, a walk in the woods, a game of Scrabble on demand, baby-sitting, house-painting, bread-making, book-reading—what you're really offering is your time. The point is not to stop giving; the point is to give things that matter: time, attention, memory and whimsy.
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