The roly-poly snowman with kitchen gloves for hands and a candy cane striped tie sits on the shelf covered with dust. No one remembers that his gloves are butter knife handles, perfect for spreading guava preserves. He is just another forgotten object, along with the curved Alaskan chopping knife resting in its wooden stand, and the Lenox candy dish, a wedding gift from so many years ago. The snowman was traded for an Andrea Bocelli Christmas CD I picked from a grab bag at a work holiday party. I winced when I took off the wrapping and gladly traded it for the snowman. I had the pick of the lot from the five gushing women vying for my CD. No wonder I can’t work in an office for long. The lumpy belly of the snowman is so different from the little delft cow salt and peppershakers sitting next to it. Can everyone see the difference? I am not that fond of figurines, but I like the cows. They are delicate, while the snowman, which I actually like too, mostly for the butter knives I never use, screams made in China on sale at Tuesday Mornings, under five dollars for the Christmas grab bag. A family heirloom, candidate for a garage sale, or maybe the garbage bin? A reminder of the north and another time? There it sits, mitten hands at its side, oblivious to the indifference that surrounds it.

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