Despite the frosty fact that our holiday season tends to focus more on the mall than the manger, I try to preserve the true spirit of Christmas by hanging mistletoe, keeping the wassail bowl full and visiting our nearby live nativity, which received national coverage last year when a “loaner” camel escaped up the expressway, creating a very unmerry Yuletide for local police. Still, while keeping the true spirit of the season in mind, opening gifts around the tree is also a traditional part of our celebration.

  Because our large family extends further than most, in addition to a menagerie of dogs, cats and horses, I make every effort to get myself out of the barn and into the shops early for my own holiday buy-fest.

  Meandering the aisles, I attempt to stick to gift lists suggested by family and friends, choosing what they really want instead of employing the “if I like it you’ll love it” system practiced by my mother-in-law, who remains under the (false) impression that her Yuletide choices will eventually transform me from country mouse to city sophisticate.

  Nothing if not tenacious, she clings to the hope I’ll discover the joy of bundling up in what our hounds chase (but do not catch) from November through March.

  I refer to the year of the fox coat debacle.

  She truly believes if she loves the gift, I will too.

  If I operated under the same premise, would mother-in-law be ecstatic as she discovered a brand-new fleece lined saddle pad, no matter how festively wrapped?

  I think not.

  Each and every Christmas, mother-in-law’s tradition has been to buy me exactly four presents designed to improve the minimal contents of my closet, which, in turn, would encourage other lifestyle changes.

  As if.

  She had to start somewhere.

  Yet, holiday after holiday, her tenacious efforts to citify her country mouse daughter-in-law’s wardrobe failed abysmally.

  Until last year when, fortunately, without causing an ounce of ill will, I discovered the perfect solution for handling mother-in-law’s Patricia from Paris frocks and stiletto heels, which I traditionally wear a total of once before tucking them behind my husband’s mustard yellow leisure suit in the attic.

  And it is the overwhelming success of last year’s plot that encourages me to hope for a close copy of “mother-in-law-Christmas gifts 2008” without revealing her failure to comprehend cashmere and lace are wasted on someone who spends the better part of a day, in her words, “scraping dirt off large animals.”

  Nor does the fact that she sees me wearing her gifts only once deter her from efforts to change my low to no-fashion sensibilities by giving me something I would never buy for myself.

  In a thousand years.

  I really hope she does it again this Christmas.

  Here’s why.

  Last year, the first of her four presents was tucked into a lovely box wrapped in elegant gold foil and red satin ribbon. Unlike her daughter-in-law, she has never once been reduced to wrapping gifts in feed sacks tied with baling twine after running out of supplies at 3 a.m. Christmas morning.

  She watched with shining eyes as I extracted an obviously pricey lizard clutch purse from several hundred layers of tissue, clasping her hands in near prayer with the certainty that this year she had found, she said, “the perfect carrier for your most precious valuables.”

  Since “my most precious valuables” consist of a marvelously comfy but rather bulky saddle and a pair of riding boots that took me 20 years to break in, I had serious doubts they would slide into that lizard clutch. Instead of pointing this out, or confessing my aversion to all things made from the clothing of creatures who look better wearing it themselves, I simply murmured “thank you,” throwing in a few oohs and aahs for good measure.

  It was, after all, Christmas, when the spirit of good will towards all should prevail. Plus, fortunately mother-in-law never fails to include receipts, not in case I don’t like the item, which never crosses her mind, but in case some hidden flaw requires an exchange.

  Returning the clutch the minute mother-in-law hopped on a plane for home, I used the proceeds to purchase a brand-new sandwich kit to attach to my saddle, confident the sterling silver-topped flask would clearly meet mother-in-law’s criteria for “elegant carrier.”

  I admit most daughters-in-law would pay heed to my mother-in-law, a classic high-fashion maven who has not gained an ounce in 40 years, due, I suspect, to her diet of unsweetened water and celery. A woman who believes wearing polyester is a punishable offense, she was deeply pained that her favorite son’s wife is comfortable in burlap and barn boots.

  Though she’s tried valiantly throughout the years to bring me into the ranks of the fashionable, unfortunately dressing “in style” comes in around 652nd on my list of things that matter, right under maintaining acrylic fingernails.

  Still, in mother-in-law’s never-ending quest to pluck me from the ranks of the chic-impaired, she also presents me with a new frock each year that is void of (a) denim, (b) equine symbols, or (c) pockets large enough for carrots. Last year she boxed and beribboned an ultra-unique grey Italian sheath she thought looked like a Vera Wang original, but to me resembled a squirrel costume.

  If it came off the runway, as she professed, it was definitely chased, I said. But only to myself. After all, it was Christmas.

  Once I unscrambled the neck from the armhole, I tried it on while she ooh-ed and aah-ed and the rest of the family excused themselves before they exploded. Extricating myself from the dress and silver fuzz from my scalp, I returned it the following morning and purchased a deliciously heavy black English Melton coat to replace my 24-year-old hunting jacket that was much worn, frayed, snagged and perhaps slightly outgrown.

  “Are you enjoying your present?” asked mother-in-law the next day.

  “More than you can imagine. Those Europeans really make beautiful clothes,” I answered, not entirely untruthfully.

  Mother-in-law’s third gift last year was a pair of solid gold earrings the size of hula hoops. While they may have looked stunning on Jennifer Lopez, they would have snagged on my wheelbarrow handles. That danger in mind, within hours they’d morphed into a heavy English halter made of better leather than all my shoes and belts put together. Besides, it had gold buckles. All right, brass.

  Her fourth Christmas gift was a two-ounce bottle of obscenely expensive French perfume that would have asphyxiated our goat. While it might also have eliminated the need for fly repellent, it was returned and exchanged for a really stunning saddle pad.

  All right, so I may not be the picture of haute couture when I’m out in public. But, thanks to mother-in-law, I’ve got the best-dressed horse in Chester County!

  And, if all goes as well as last year, when I go to church on Christmas morning to say thank you for my generous bounty, I can really mean it. -CL-