“In my basement I have a room pretty near full of stuff that I’ve gotten at potlatches,” he says. “We’ll give some of it away again.” He plans to give cash and special gifts to some fellow chiefs, like the one who gave him a stereo system at a recent potlatch, but he doesn’t plan to go into debt. “The thing is not to go overboard and buy really expensive gifts. But enough to show people that you care for them and are thinking about them.”

Control your animosity. If your family’s holiday exchanges have turned into warfare, don’t give up hope. Although one-upmanship is inherent in gift-giving, the history of the potlatch suggests that viciousness is not inevitable.

In the 19th-century potlatches, chiefs one-upped each other by cutting off a piece of an engraved copper shield and either throwing it into the fire or giving it to the other chief. Because these “coppers” were a form of currency, it was a bit like cutting up $100 bills, except the coppers could be worth far more. A 1934 textbook, “Patterns of Culture,” quotes a chief talking about a prized copper named Dandalayu:

“Furthermore such is my pride that I will kill on this fire my copper Dandalayu, which is groaning in my house. You all know how much I paid for it. I bought it for 4,000 blankets. Now I will break it in order to vanquish my rival. I will make my house a fighting place for you, my tribe.” Today, though, potlatch scholars say that those extravagant copper fights were a historical anomaly caused by the arrival of white fur traders, which upended the Indians’ social structure and created a class of nouveau riche leaders vying for prestige.

After that 19th-century economic boom passed, the potlatches became less ostentatious, and today the chiefs play up the cooperative aspects of the ceremonies. Chief Cranmer and the other leaders in Alert Bay, his home on an island northwest of Vancouver, have toned down the hostility by agreeing not to break up coppers anymore. Now that the bubble has burst on Wall Street’s nouveau riche, maybe they will become less competitive. Maybe.

But a little showing off is still fine. Today’s potlatchers still engage in some conspicuous destruction. After the dancing was finished at a potlatch several years ago, the chief impressed the crowd by tossing the dancers’ masks into the fire. The tradition of pouring fish oil into the fire continues, although there are no longer carved figures called “vomiters” that spew a continuous flow. Now that this eulachon oil costs $500 per gallon, potlatchers show more restraint.

Could this destructive tradition work elsewhere? The gratuitous burning of oil would be an environmental faux pas  I can’t see many people proudly letting their SUVs idle during holiday feasts  but there’s something to be said for this form of display: it lets you demonstrate your wealth without going shopping or inflicting more clutter on someone’s else closets. The ceremonial burning of a Santa Claus tie or “World’s Greatest Mom” apron would send the same message  and would acquire even more meaning if the donor of the gift were present.