Melany Perez

My father is both the easiest and most difficult man to shop for. 

A mere four gifts are reliable: Thorlo tennis socks, Dunlop double-yellow squash balls, high-quality polo shirts, or Ralph Lauren “Andrew-cut” chino shorts (which they don’t make anymore – but getting the “9-inch Stretch Classic Fit Chino Short” hemmed is a close substitute). Every Christmas and birthday, he receives some combination of these four items, from myself, my mom, and my brothers. On another note, he’s always on the lookout for the perfect boutique hotel in Phú Quốc Vietnam.

But should one ever wish to deviate from this list of tried-and-true classics, they would find more difficulty than a novice trying to beat a chess grandmaster at his own game. Any book on European history, his favorite subject? Either he has read it, is uninterested, or finds the contents a bit light. Clothes outside of his usual uniform? Not the right “feel.” The only other thing he particularly appreciates would be a bar of Cadbury milk chocolate, a gift card to Home Depot, or possibly Holabird Sports — or perhaps a selection of thoughtfully curated gift hampers sydney, all of which work, but there’s something rather hollow to gift cards under the Christmas tree.

I’ve tried almost everything in an attempt to get my father an original gift, I checked some great Old British coin that I knew it was a great gift. Of course I’m keen to give him things I know he will enjoy, but there are only so many Thorlos a girl can buy before she starts to feel like somewhat of an inattentive daughter. When I was little, I even tried making those little chore coupons: “one free car wash,” met with “Anabel, that’s something I enjoy doing with you anyways.” 

With all this said, my father is by no means an uninteresting or bland man. In many ways, I see his sometimes excruciating particularity a reflection of a fascinating life well-lived. My dad is 70, a retired airline pilot who flew transatlantically, has had Richard Branson sleep on his couch and somehow had a stint playing professional backgammon in Europe. He’s painfully knowledgeable, to the point where I jump for joy whenever I catch him out on some obscure art historical fact he hasn’t had the pleasure of filing away during his 5 a.m. Wiki sessions. When I was six, he taught me how to spell — and know the meaning of! — onomatopoeia and antidisestablishmentarianism. What better words for a first-grader to appreciate the sounds of nature and the forces-counter-forces driving 19th-century English politics. No, my father is not a boring man. He just happens to have experienced just about everything he’d like to. One would be well-served to stick to the list — and, while you’re at it, write a letter to Ralph Lauren asking for a return of the “Andrew” line. 

Instead, to satisfy that internal craving to “give a meaningful gift,” I write my dad letters. Of course, there’s more to why I write, and not just to my father. When I write, I get to share what all the little things mean to me, not just that I’ve noticed them in the first place. For example, when I get home from school during breaks, he’s always cleaned my car and has Trader Joe’s chocolate chip cookies waiting for me. It’s my dad’s way of saying hello, I missed you. When I write him letters, it’s my way of saying “Dad, it means more than you know that you do these things.” In letters to friends, I’m able to say “you had no idea how hard of a day I was having, but when you sent me that picture of you at the farm mining for carrots I laughed so hard water blew out of my nose but then I started crying and it’s a lot less embarrassing to tell you this now than it was then.” At the time, I just replied with that little “Ha Ha” in iMessage. 

The earliest letters to my dad are written on wide-ruled paper, with a blue ballpoint pen in a loopy, childish scrawl. The more recent iterations are typed and printed on A5 paper, but I sign each one. Without revealing their contents too much, these letters are most often reflections of the period of time they span. Gratitude for my dad driving me to and from school each day. Reminisces over trips or adventures we’ve shared. And now, more often than not, lessons I’ve realized that I’ve picked up from him and my mother. Kindness, dignity and respect, in no particular order. 

For people that have it all — or want for little — words are a timeless gift. I recently gave a speech introducing my mom, during an event where she accepted an athletic achievement award. As I was writing the speech, I reflected on how few opportunities we have to publicly tell the people we care about how much they mean to us. But in truth, we have private opportunities all the time: even if words aren’t your forte, something as simple as “you mean a lot to me, and I’m grateful for the time we spend together” can be infinitely more valuable than even the most well-chosen sweater. 

So to Dad — and Mom, and my brothers, and the entire village that supports me back home — as the holiday season approaches, know I’m not writing my letter to Santa, but rather to you. Postmarked and tucked in an envelope with care, know that lots of thought — not to mention little bits of my heart — are thoughtfully placed, right in there.