Tis The Season...

Well, I've finally gotten around to sitting down and adding to my pathetically-thin blog. The Holidays are looming like a big ... giant ... looming thing and I find myself mixed on how I feel about their imminent approach. Mainly: do I try and savor them or merely survive them?

I mean, it's all fine and dandy to wax nostalgic about how the Holidays were magical and sacrosanct when I was a little kid, and how we don't have the time to truly appreciate them in today's society, but is this fair? Is it even accurate? In the larger picture, is it Christmas time that's changed, or simply me? It seems quite obvious to me that I'm the one who's changed, but a lot of my mixed view of this time of year is due to growing up and seeing the world from a different perspective: I didn't have bills to pay when I was a boy, or the debts and obligations that came, unbidden, on the coat tails of adulthood. I could afford to sit home on December nights during high school, sip hot chocolate by the tree as "The Nutcracker" played quietly on my cassette player nearby. I cherished those nights of quiet contemplation: the smell of the fir tree, the aromas coming from the kitchen as Mom baked all manner of delicious and, ultimately, fattening confectionery delights. Wonderful times I'll never forget.

I humbly thank my parents for working so hard to make Christmas so very magical for my sister and me. From my father tossing gravel up on the roof of my first house and telling us it was Santa's reindeer and that Julie and I had better be asleep or else we'd get passed by or worse: coal in the stockings, to delivering our letters to Santa. My Dad even went so far as to hire the wonderfully accurate Santa from the nearby G.C. Murphy's department store to come to our house in full regalia to visit with my sister and me. Julie and I were sleeping in my room since our Grandmother had come to visit and was holed up in Julie's room. Dad had separated my bunk beds for us and, despite being about three years old, I can recall some kind of quiet commotion coming from downstairs. Then Dad came into our room and told us that Santa was downstairs and if we wanted to come see him that this was our golden chance.

I immediately hopped out of bed, flush with the prospect of seeing Santa Claus himself, but Julie pulled her sheets up over her head and, vigorously shaking her head, informed Dad (sotto voce) that naughty children got coal in their stockings. It all came down to the rudimentary math for my sister and it simply was NOT worth the risk. However, I clearly remember taking my father's hand, and, taking our winding staircase one step at a time in my feety pajamas, headed downstairs to confront the legend. (I should note that I wasn't completely full of bravado however, I did have my security blanket with me.)

Hitting the last step I will always remember giving a huge gasp as I actually saw Santa Claus filling my stockings with goodies. I. Saw. Santa. In that glorious instant, I knew beyond doubt that all the magic was true and that no, NO ONE, could ever tell me that Santa Claus didn't exist. I exclaimed, "SANTA!!" and ran to where he was. Whether I hugged him, I can't recall, but I probably did. He explained that I'd caught him in the act and that, while he was very busy, he could probably spare a few minutes to visit with me, and didn't I have an older sister? Where was she? A minute or so later, Julie appeared in her bathrobe, eyes huge in wonder. Santa sang carols with us on the piano, had a cookie or two and talked with us for a bit. There are Polaroids to back up this claim too. (In fact, I remember Julie asking him how he got into our house since our chimney was too small, and I asked him about the band-aide on his finger. He explained that our Dad had to leave one door open for Santa to get in and deliver presents and that one of the reindeer [Julie thinks it might been Blitzen?] nipped his finger while he was harnessing them.) Despite my coming home from grade school in later years with a split lip or bloody nose from defending my belief that Santa Claus DID exist, it was all totally worth the memories.

But, Christmas time wasn't always 100% for the kids. Dad got his enjoyment from the Holidays now and again. Sometime before my third Christmas, Dad went down to the aforementioned G.C. Murphy's to talk with the very same Santa I just pontificated about. He told that Santa some of the naughty things I'd done throughout the year, and then brought me down to visit said Saint Nicholas. Dad sat me on the hallowed knee and Santa evidently (I don't recall this but Dad swears by it) asked me if I'd been a good boy since last Christmas. According to the story, I quite confidently assured Mr. Claus that I'd been the poster boy for good and sat back waiting to hit him up with list of highly-deserved presents.

I like to imagine my father having to physically try not to wet himself from laughter as Santa proceeded to tell me of all the naughty things he'd seen me do (sticking my tongue out at Julie, not eating vegetables, etc.) Evidently, my mouth dropped open and my eyes bugged out in a mixture of awe and horror as I tried to both shake my head in denial and nod in a guilty acceptance of the facts. (Oh my God! He really does know when you've been bad or good!) Yep, Dad loves to tell that story ... and I guess he's earned it.

But, it's different nowadays. I won't bore you by cranking out a laundry list of complaints about how times goes by so quickly these days. I think we can all relate though. Maybe the magic is different?

Okay, that's enough for now. Possibly more later as Christmas Eve draws nigh.