Marcia Sherrill
Sentimental Journeys
Marcia on the most extravagant of luxuries: time.
BY
Marcia Sherrill
PHOTOGRAPHY
Steve Pomberg

Now, I know that my daughter and I have wished for one thing, and one thing only, since the earliest days of 2007—yes, you guessed it, our very own Geek Squad guy tricked out in his uniform and topped by a giant red bow and perhaps a sprig of holly. Short of that blessed gift, we’ve had a list of must-haves that would make even an IBM gadget guru’s head spin. Whether it’s iPods and iPhones, external hard drives and Macs, we want it all.

But strangely, as the holidays of Hanukkah and Christmas draw near, our family is turning off our Crackberrys and making out a whole new list. This year we don’t want Montblanc pens, Waterford crystal or alligator wallets. We are Southerners to the core, so it’s only rational that we crave these trappings of taste and elegance we were raised with.

For instance, our family was far, far from spoiled, but Christmas was our collective extravagance. Tiffany boxes, Louis Vuitton bags, and Ray-Ban sunglasses were what our Daddy gave us, and we awaited them like panting puppies.

But today we want personal luxuries—artwork, and most precious of all: time. My father (Belle’s grandfather) died this year, so we are all looking for memories. We’re having old photos from the Korean “conflict” restored; the images, culled from his sister’s photo collections, will be given glorious sterling frames, and his favorite Christmas carols will be recorded on a special DVD, because this year we will have only those tiny reflections of his very large and dazzling personality.

My huntin’ and fishin’ brother has averred that he wants nothing outdoorsy and is opting instead for vintage Sulka ties and a used Cartier tank watch—the kind we buried with Daddy. Even the promise that Daddy would have killed for a Purdy gun has my brother shaking his head and suggesting a seersucker suit circa 1960.

My daughter, who usually can be found in a lagoon of Juicy Couture, Abercrombie & Fitch and London’s TOP SHOP, is asking for ultra-modern accessories and wallpaper for her bedroom renovation. Speak of Jonathan Adler and just watch her swoon. And with eight nights of Hanukkah, she feels confident that she’ll get someone to cough up the big money for one of those retro-hanging circle chairs.

My mother, having endured enough trials this year, is refusing anything from Tory Burch, French Soles or Fendi. Her one request? Only that we “please take a trip to Ireland together.” She wants her family together, and if it pleases her for us all to stand together in the misery of some ancestral peat bog or potato patch, then it is to Shannon we will go. And we will pass the rest of the time in one of Ireland’s fabulous resorts and take in some Irish dancing.

My friends are also following suit; I’ve had nary a taker for a bottle of Creeds Perfume or a Jill Sander scarf. Seems that the label craze has cooled. I am giving blown-glass flowers to these women who have bloomed beside me in all my troubles and travails. For the men in my life, I am giving books and the wish that they have the luxury of time to read them…Kahlil Gibran or Rousseau or even Keats.

Now is the time for the luxury of life, its simplest and most ardent pleasures: family and the great good fortune of health and things that speak to our souls.