Part 5:

Christmas

“All you need is love…”  The Beatles

As a kid, I loved Christmas.  The whole mystical, magical mythology of Santa, the scent of a freshly cut fir tree, the shopping for cheap presents at Woolworths for grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, parents, and siblings.  Handkerchiefs or candles for grandma, ties for dad and grandpa, yoyos for siblings, but always something special for mom.  She liked practical gifts, or so I thought, because she always raved about whatever trinket she received.  One year I got her measuring spoons.  Brilliant.  She never complained.  I received an allowance of 25 cents a week.  Five cents went to church, five cents went to savings (I had a passbook savings account) the rest went to my piggy bank.  Anything in my piggybank I could use for whatever I wanted.  I always saved some each week for Christmas.  One year, on Christmas Eve, my dad made an excuse to go outside and a few minutes later we heard footsteps on the roof.  My mom claimed they were made by Santa’s reindeer and that we should hurry in to bed.  Since parents never lie to their children, we believed her and hurried off to bed, carefully listening to the reindeer hooves stepping lightly on the roof.

Somehow or another Christmas never quite lived up to my expectations.  It was nice.  It was fun.  But it seemed something was always missing.  And as the commercialization of Christmas grew, so did whatever was missing.

When our kids were young, we struggled from paycheck to paycheck.  I tried hard not to disappoint my children but there never seemed to be adequate savings to buy the gifts I wanted for my kids, much less my wife.  And even if my kids were not disappointed, I worried they would be.  I knew, even then, that happiness couldn’t be purchased, yet we are a comparative society, and I knew they would see what their friends received and that, in comparison, they might be disappointed.  Christmas just never lived up to its promise.

The stress of trying to assemble trikes, then bikes late at night on Christmas Eve; trying to decide what to do about the leftover nuts and/or bolts that should probably go somewhere, but where oh where do they go? Or the other things requiring assembly; inserting part A into Part B. Anything requiring mechanical ability or spatial awareness was stressful, complicated by the possibility that I may have ingested one too many eggnogs before attempting assembly.

Yet, I looked and continue to look forward to Christmas every year, even if it comes with a minor amount of dread and fear of disappointment.  There is a chaos that causes fear, and then there is chaos that is the result of happy laughter, presents being ripped open, paper and ribbons everywhere, the scent of candles burning, dogs barking, ripping at the discarded paper, a fire in the fireplace causing the house to heat up beyond any comfortable measure.  I look forward to dinner with family, games and puzzles after dinner.  Sweaters and mittens and socks and ties all given with love.  As I creep into ancientness, I tend not to give much stuff, because my family has more stuff than we need, but more on experiences; trips to the aquarium, fishing trips, day spa experiences to get refreshed from the stress of daily living.  That sort of thing. 

With Linda’s death, life seems so much more precious.  Every moment is real and vibrant and important.  What we say and what we don’t say are important.  The world is filled with beauty and wondrous things.  And that which is beautiful comes from love.  And perhaps a bit late in life, I believe the magic of Christmas is not in stuff but love.  Merry Christmas!