A Hippo for my Christmas 2022
It started as a joke. 15 years ago, Ryan, my brother-in-law, drew my name for the Christmas gift exchange. He let out a mountainous sigh, looked to the heavens, and shook his head. “Crap, I got you. Whaddaya want?”
It was the easiest of replies.
I loudly, off-key, and cheekily sang back “I want a hippopotamus for Christmas.”
What is not to love about 10-year old Gayla Peevey singing her heart out about her love for and her dream of wanting a hippopotamus for Christmas way back in 1953? Her reasons are valid, her wish is heartfelt. I feel she has thought this present out. She has covered all of the care bases her new hippo will require. The true and honest emotions of this child have kept the song in the Christmas repertoire for so many of us. After drinking enough egg nog, eating enough sugar cookies, and listening to this song on repeat, I couldn’t help but want a hippo for myself. Besides, I’m not an idiot. Ryan is smart. If I asked for my two front teeth, I know that would have gone very badly in some gory, horrific way for me.
And 15 years ago, I got a hippo for Christmas! Granted, Ryan was nice enough to not buy me the real thing…or he just couldn’t afford it? That year, from crinkly white tissue, I pulled forth a hand-sized, plastic statue of a hippo standing on a grassy footing with its mouth open.
Since that fateful, deciding hippo, there have been hippo ornaments. There was a delightful year where the hippos were cookies with their bottoms dipped in chocolate. (They were amazing!) Stuffed hippos have been tossed back and forth. One year I received a certificate stating I was sponsoring a hippo who would be receiving extra plant meals thanks to a generous donation made in my name.
Those were the best of times as Charles Dickens famously says in A Tale of Two Cities. Unfortunately, I have fallen upon some of my worst of times as Charles Dickens also warns. I find myself in that dreaded “new situation” which Ebenezer Scrooge always threatened and which Bob Cratchit was always trying to avoid in A Christmas Carol. Yet, despite my inability to give or receive presents this year, a box was slid in front of me nonetheless.
I tentatively reached out and felt the box with its wrapping. “What is it?” I asked.
“You have to open it,” replied Ryan, sitting down next to me.
It was this year’s hippo. Unprovoked, unrequested, unteased about, unexpected. Between his day job teaching, nights filled with wife and kids, weekend to-do lists, Ryan found time to knit me my favorite, most symbolic animal of the season. It smells of lavender. It was created with the softest of yarn. Its tail is amazing.
“I love it,” I choke out while petting the body.
“I had a lot of fun knitting it,” Ryan says casually.
He has no idea how much this hippo means to me.
He leaves my side to go tussle with the kids. Some family member thought it would be brilliant to give all 6 of the 10-year old and under boys blow-up boxing gloves.
When Gayla Peevey sang her heart out requesting a hippo for Christmas back in 1953, the Oklahoma City Zoo campaigned right along with her. Children statewide sent in dimes to raise $3,000. On Christmas Eve 1953, Peevey was at the airport to welcome her hippo. She named the 700 pound pachyderm Mathilda. I like to imagine she kissed it on its nose. She, very sensibly, donated it to the zoo. (source)
I have named my hippopotamus Mathilda in honor of Peevey’s song. This knitted hippo is a heartfelt, time spent, creative work. I didn’t sing this year. I didn’t campaign. Yet, Ryan still took the time to keep up tradition even when I couldn’t participate. I am lucky that I will not have to donate my Mathilda to the zoo. I am lucky I have family members who still think of me regardless of my situation.
