100 Rolls of Wrapping Paper

By Ruth Magleby

For the Deseret News 2003

Sometimes my children ask me why I keep a hundred rolls of Christmas wrapping paper under my bed. I explain to them that I have a phobia about wrapping paper. They just laugh at me, but that laughter is a good thing in this house.

It was several Christmas Eves ago that caused me to develop the phobia. My husband, James, and I were students living at University Village. Finals were over, so we could breathe a weary sigh and begin wrapping for the children, ages 2 to 13. At 10:30 p.m. they were finally asleep thanks to a dose of cough syrup.

We tiptoed into our bedroom, where I just assumed we had enough leftover paper from last year. But as we searched under the bed, in the closets, desk, and through the linen cupboard, it dawned on us . . . we had NO PAPER! Not Christmas, not birthday, not wedding, NONE, NO PAPER!

Not to panic. The one-stop shopping store on south State Street was open till midnight for the holidays, so if we hurried, although we would be tired, everything would be just fine. Or so we thought until we pulled our Datsun into the dark, empty parking lot at midnight. Always the optimist, James drove to a miniature market in Murray. Relief . . . they were open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year!

But the clerk laughed and informed us that "none of the all-night markets carried wrapping paper." Outside the snow began to drop softly, and the giant flakes stuck to the frozen pavement as we walked hand in hand to the newspaper machine. "Of course Santa wraps with newspaper . . . he is the ultimate recycler," we would convince the children.

But the yellow news box was as empty as the black space under our bed had been. A frayed man leaned against it, stomping his feet to keep them warm. We looked into each other's desperate eyes. His breath echoed alcohol, mine worry as we softly spoke "Merry Christmas." James handed him the coins intended for the newspaper, and we again began to drive on the now icy roads. And it was now that we found time to talk, really talk to each other for the first time since autumn quarter.

As we neared the campus area we bought two cans of cola from the red machine that never closes, and I wondered if I should drink it so late. I would later wish I had four cans.

I don't know if it was the caffeine or the panic, but we began to communicate as we had not done before. We wondered where we would be in 10 years. We imagined the lives of our children and made wonderful plans and shared our hopes for them. We dreamed of the home we would someday build after we graduated.

We talked briefly about the strange muscle aches James was having and vowed to see a specialist when we could afford it. As our bald tires skidded we chose the perfect vehicle we would someday own. It was nearly 2 a.m. when we noticed the Crystal Palace Market still had lights on. "Nope, sold the last roll of Christmas paper yesterday," the clerk spoke.

And then . . . like a vision . . . I had a shining idea! TIN FOIL!!! I reached for the last box on the shelf with the stick matches and now held in my arms ONE HUNDRED SQUARE FEET OF HEAVY-DUTY FOIL. At last, a true Christmas miracle, I thought, and could hardly contain my gratitude as I walked it to the counter.

Then, out of nowhere, a hysterical woman in a bathrobe charged through the front door. She was acting half crazy, screaming and crying something about Christmas dinner, some turkey she "had to have in the oven by 6 a.m. or the day would be ruined." I clutched the box of foil closer to me when she cried that she was "OUT OF FOIL" and had been searching all night! As James pried my fingers from the box he spoke to her: "I hope your family appreciates how much trouble you go to for Christmas dinner." Then he handed her the box.

For a half second I wanted to strangle him for giving her the last box of tin foil in the entire Salt Lake Valley. But he reached into the red box on the counter and bought me a 25 cent CORDIAL cherry chocolate, and when the woman turned before leaving to say, "God bless you both," I forgave him.

The snow moaned under our tires as the Datsun drove itself back to the parking lot of our apartment, where we discussed the absurdity of our dilemma. We sat and looked at the huge medical research buildings on the east mountainside, as we held each other and held each other's worries, as the moon cast perfect shadows from the skeleton trees.

At 4 a.m., because we were so tired, or desperate, or maybe, just maybe, because we both loved our children so much, we came up with one absolutely crazy idea. DUMPSTER DIVING! Of course, all of those fancy new buildings must have given employee parties. Somewhere behind one of them in the trash bin there must be some discarded paper.

As we climbed inside the giant steel bin, I was glad the air was so frozen. For I could hardly smell the discarded shrimp, filet mignon and cheesecake, and wondered if we would ever dine like this even if we could afford it. But for now, I was happy! Here in this garbage can we had just found the silver mine of all corporate Christmas parties!!! PAPER! More kinds of paper than I had ever imagined. Embossed paper, tissue paper, shiny paper, glitter and reindeer paper. And wads and wads of barely creased foil paper. And since Santa was the "ultimate recycler," I felt no shame for taking this home.

As the sun cast pink streaks across the newly white valley we wrapped the last gift, indulged in a deluxe cola, sat our dazed bodies upright on the couch waiting for the children to waken.

Neither of us knew the future as we talked that night; nobody does. It seems we did not find the time again to talk alone. To talk about one of us going on without the other, or raising the children alone. But all of life is unpredictable . . . and sometimes what we believe are our hardest times may later become cherished memories.

That Christmas Eve would turn out to be one of the last we would spend together, as my husband died from a progressive muscle disease. And each December 24, I try to remind myself, "That which is worth most, costs nothing."

And although I will always cherish the unwrapped gifts we gave each other during that long night . . . I STILL KEEP 100 ROLLS OF WRAPPING PAPER UNDER MY BED!