In 1977, a three-year-old me sat at an orange formica kitchen table in Stoughton, Massachusetts.

I'm sure that at that age, sitting still wasn't my strong suit, but on this day, I needed to because I was on important business.

My mom had made a batch of salt dough, that sticky, pliable

mixture of flour, salt, and water, and she rolled it out onto a baking sheet. She traced

around my tiny outstretched hand with a plastic knife and peeled away the excess dough,

leaving a cut-out cookie the size and shape of my hand. Salt dough will rise and bubble in the oven if you're not careful, so she poked it with forked

times several times along the top side and put it in the oven to bake and harden, but not

before using a drinking straw to put a circular hole near the top.

When it was baked and cooled, she brushed to the whole thing in varnish and painted Brian

1977 in red letters on one side, the smooth side not park-parted with the fork-time piercings.

And then she strung red yarn through that hole she made with the straw and hung it on the

Christmas tree not far from the matching ornament belonging to my older brother.

I still have that ornament to this very day, and I consider it among my prized possessions,

and certainly among my oldest.

That's the power of a handmade item.

Something so simple can carry meaning and value far, far greater than the sum of its parts.

And in this case, those parts were basic supplies already lying around the house. The value is in the memory, the application

of skill and time and love and thought, and the close connection to all of that for the recipient.

Sure, it's also nice to receive the latest sensational thing bought off a store shelf and shipped from some far-away factory.

And sure, some of those things can go on to become sentimental or nostalgic treasures.

But a hand-crafted item offers something that a store-bought item never can.

A true piece of the maker and the giver.

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