What’s the last present you unwrapped?

It’s a special event when one person gives a gift to another, for any reason. Gift cards or registries are now the most popular choice of gifting for birthdays, graduations, weddings, holidays, housewarming, etc. In some ways it’s impersonal, but in other ways it’s better. We’ve all given or received gifts for which we or the recipient have no use or liking whatsoever.

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In the past, I bought US Savings Bonds for weddings or newborns, but now there is only a digital presence, not the honored document that was offered, then kept safely in a drawer until that magic date of redemption.

Thankfully, we don’t (yet) give gift cards to little children. We hope to witness their cries of pure delight when they tear open the colorful package with a surprise inside, from someone who cares for them. When I visit my two-and-a-half year old grandson, I cannot wait to see the look on his face when I take the yellow Tonka dump truck or the Jeep with monster wheels out of my suitcase. Next month, I’ll bring a model trailer truck with compartments for Hot Wheel matchbox cars that I bought at a yard sale. He’s all about vehicles:

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Getting a small plastic card for a present would be a complete puzzlement to him!

I admit I was thrilled when my daughter gave me a generous gift certificate to the garden center for my 70th birthday. The perennials and flowering shrubs I planted bloom and grow each year, reminding me of how she so sweetly thought of me with her loving heart.

Sadly, her dad, Paul, died four years ago. When his dear friend Arthur’s milestone 70th birthday came up, I had no idea what to buy him for a gift. Being a “no frills” kinda guy, he wouldn’t want clothing or a decorative item, or anything that would cause a fuss.

My late husband, Paul, and Art had a “guy” friendship based on love of tractors, mowers, power tools, hand tools, and garden implements. Their respective workshops, basements, and tool sheds were stocked with inventories of electrical, mechanical, and carpentry items “just in case.” They never discarded anything on the off chance that the odd screw or drill bit or length of pipe would come in handy for a future project.

Maybe a gift card to Home Depot?

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When I was leaving the house for the party, empty-handed except for a bottle of wine, I passed by Paul’s collection of hammers lined up on the garage wall, each hanging from a nail. Who knows why so many hammers migrated to his workshop, but they did—in force—along with screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, and drills, acquired from his dad, my dad, his brother, an occasional purchase.

The dozen or so old hammers never die. No moving parts to wear out or disengage. The one or two new ones with shiny steel ergonomic handles wrapped in rubber sleeves need to prove themselves.

I quickly grabbed one of the old hammers from the rack, wrote Paul’s name on the wooden handle with a magic marker, and dropped it into a brown paper grocery bag.

When I gave the bag to Art, he looked at me with a glint in his eye, as if to say, “Great, no ribbons, no cards, no waste of wrapping paper.” He turned the hammer over in his hands many times, feeling how solid, sturdy, and balanced it was, form following function to perfection. He handled it carefully and lovingly, as if it were a sacred object—a tool he knew his friend had used for home repairs, constructing birdhouses or shelving, and other utilitarian purposes over the years.

Art understood that the joy derived from simple accomplishments and acts of service reflected the truth of his friend’s being. He thanked me with all his heart, his gift in return, to me.

Arthur Miller died at the age of 72 on April 28, 2018. When he arrives “up there,” I can hear Paul asking him, “Hey Art, I just realized there’s a hammer missing from my workshop,” and Art replying, “Hey buddy, I’ve got it for you in my back pocket, no worries.”

Dear friend, your loss is shocking, untimely and truly painful to accept. Rest in “peaceful resistance,” your deeply held principle as a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War, and the moral compass that you lived by all of your life.