Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way

Epistle 19 – Tis The Season

Here it is again. Tis the Season, and it’s about time Joy to the World is duly recognized as the most important Christmas Carol ever. Not because it is a great work of art and adoration, but because it was always the last song of the Christmas Eve service at St. Luke’s Lutheran Church, and I could finally race home and tear open every present as fast as I could and then wonder if that’s all there was to it. Of course, I did have to first endure a tedious ceremony wherein my brother passed out all the presents, just because he could read and I couldn’t. The tension was unbearable, a bit like waiting for the bell to ring and the gates open at a horse race, followed by a flurry of flying paper and bows. If there had been a horse doofer among the presents, no one would have noticed.

Of course, now that I am wiser and more mature, I realize that the joy of Christmas is the anticipation leading to the big event. It’s the journey, not the destination; and all my fond memories of Christmases past are of the weeks before. Like the time I learned the truth about Santa Clause. Actually, that happened about an hour and a half before the big event. I was on my way to church with my mother and my brother and suddenly realized I forgot something dreadfully important—probably my lucky plastic gold doubloon—and panic stricken, did an immediate about face and raced for home. I’m sure my mother screamed for me to turn back before it was too late but, her voice was drowned out by the bells on Santa’s sleigh. Or maybe it was the bell on the door to the Gopher Hole tavern.

Anyway, you can just imagine how shocked I was to find Santa, who was a dead ringer for my father, crawling around under the tree distributing presents. After a moment of mutual recognition, a moment frozen in time, I retrieved my lucky doubloon and raced back to church, wondering if my father would already be there, proving that Santa was real and the man under our tree was just another MIA from the Gopher Hole.

Of course, the spell was broken but that did not tarnish the wonders of Yuletides to come. Like the time my brother broke his wrist as we raced downhill on his sled, him on his stomach at the controls and me on his back, bravely breaking the sound barrier. Or the tears in our eyes the time I forgot to open the chimney flue as the Yule log blazed in the fireplace. And who could forget all the times the tree toppled over, thanks to the elves crawling around under it to gaze up at the marvelous lights . . . and thanks to the crooked trunk that took a left turn about a third of the way up because those were real trees, by God, and not these fake plastic ones with perfectly straight trunks, factory installed lights, and eternally green branches. Back in the good ol’ days, needles fell off real trees, usually long before the season ended, leaving the gay lights, silvery tinsel and beautiful ornaments dangling from a brown stick. Man, talk about festive.

Yes, children, they don’t make Christmas like they used to, but I still love to sit back after all the hustle and bustle of decorating, shopping, Scrooge and the Grinch, to bask in the beauty and true meaning of the Season. I’d love to but I have to go now and rip open a present.

God rest ye merry, Gentlemen . . . and Ladies.

We Will Win

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