I have always liked Christmas. I love the sights, the smells, the lights, the music and the food. I love decorating my tree - which usually happens the day after Thanksgiving - even this year, in the midst of a tumultuous period of time that sees the nation barreling toward a new civil war. This year was somewhat different than in years past, because I put up a live tree. I have not had a live tree in so many years I forget when I actually had one and, although I was unable to use my large collection of ornaments, somehow, this year, it seemed right.
Despite the fact that Christmas seems to come earlier every year, as stores go from black and orange to red and green and turn on the Christmas music in mid-October, it never squashes my love of all things Christmas. And every time I hear Bing Crosby croon out "White Christmas," I am transported to the Christmases of my youth, when we used to look forward to those snowy Christmas days in Maryland or upstate New York watching my mother's favorite Christmas movie. It is this song that fills me with the most joy and nostalgia when the calendar changes over to December.
I really miss the Christmases when I lived in New Hampshire, even though it was only a few years ago. The glow of lights on the snow, riding in a horse-drawn sleigh through a covered bridge while sipping hot cocoa and listening to carolers singing Christmas carols in the town square or driving down to Boston to see the old harbor city lit with lights. There is something magical about Christmas in New England. There was so much nostalgia in those days. It was a celebration of old ways that endure and new ways that may someday be old and once-venerated traditions that are - sadly - no more.
Christmas is a day, a season, a pivotal time both to reflect and look forward, a time to rekindle a child-like wonder and see the world with new eyes, especially in a world forever changed by Covid-19. It is a time to "come home," both physically and spiritually, to become reacquainted with our loved ones and our traditions. It is a time to take stock, count our blessings and share our surplus with others.
Christmas is all about traditions. And traditions connect us to one another and to our past. They tell us who we are - and were - and they give our lives meaning and memory. So many of the things we associate with Christmas: trees, lights, holly, mistletoe and wreaths all have their basis in some tradition our ancestors gained from someone in their past, or something rooted much farther back in our common history. The celebration of Christmas itself, once forbidden in America by the Puritans, started as a pagan ceremony from the days of the Celts (as early as the third century) - who sought ways to bring light into the season around the darkest day of the year - through the celebration of Saturnalia, honoring Saturn, the brightest light in the winter sky.
Martin Luther was walking in the woods one winter night in Germany and saw stars sparkling off the snow on a tree, hence bringing us the tradition of Christmas trees. Santa Claus has his origin in St. Nicholas, a fourth century bishop in Asia Minor known for his kindness, generosity and love of children. It is these traditions that have developed over the years into so many of our modern Christmas traditions and form the heart of our celebrations every December.
It is difficult to fully divorce Christmas from its religious underpinnings, or even the less inclusive aspects - the mostly white imagery of the holiday perpetuated by advertisements and popular culture and the hearty embrace of consumerism. But, growing up, we always found ways to make Christmas our own.
I always enjoyed sitting beside the Christmas tree and watching the lights twinkle and sparkle off the hand-blown glass ornaments my parents loved to decorate with every year, probably dating back to the 1950s, very fragile and delicate. And a set of mirror ornaments favored by my grandmother that adorned our tree after cancer took her from this life on the days leading up to Christmas in 1978, as well as the ornaments I started buying with money I made delivering newspapers around that same time. Every year, I would add a new ornament to the tree. I would gaze at the lights and whisper dreams for the new year.
Christmas in those days was always a celebration of my family, sometimes involving a cross-country trip to Florida or California to visit one or the other set of grandparents. As I have grown older, I have come to appreciate Christmas for being a constant reminder of how lucky and privileged I was to have parents who cared so deeply about - and had the means for - bringing us these moments of delight.
In that vein, I have never understood last-minute Christmas shoppers. Though, I admit, I have mostly witnessed them from afar. I do not like to get too close. I wonder if they might be a little crazy to wait so late. It just seems strange to me to see a checkout line a quarter mile long of sniffling, red-faced, impatient people and think, "Man I need to go get right in the middle of that."
I know we all sometimes forget essential things - like pecan-crusted cheese logs or 5-gallon buckets of caramel corn - that slip our minds in our holiday rush. It is just not Christmas without almost-expired eggnog from King Sooper or day-old fruitcake from Safeway.
But I know people who relish going out in the storm, who wait until the last second because they are battling for the last three quarters of a parking spot at Target and must engage in at least one yelling cuss fight outside Dollar Tree with a woman with a weeping toddler on her hip, a peppermint latte on her breath and a return slip in her teeth. And there is that one friend who cannot go a day without a cuss fight, just because.
Men, I believe, are the worst. They behave as if the holiday were a thing that just occurred to them at 7:59 p.m. on Christmas Eve. You will see them standing in line at Walgreens, a little bewildered, holding an assortment of sugar free chocolates and a Chia pet.
These are not bad people. These are good, brave souls. They are just drawn to it for some reason. And, if you are one of them, well, you know who you are.
I understand the idea, the notion of Bob Cratchit frolicking through a busy London street gazing in windows full of plump geese, hearing carols in the air and smelling roasted chestnuts. But I have never met Bob as I slogged through the snow to my parking spot in Cambodia, searching for holiday-themed pretzels and the last lonely roll of tape. So, I swing to the other extreme.
I refuse to wade out into the madness of October to put the finishing touches on my holiday preparations.
But I cannot say I have not picked up an occasional last-minute item. I mean, they do not erect that teetering tower of butter cookies at CVS until almost Halloween. And there is always Hanukkah that falls in there somewhere for all my Jewish friends, whom I somehow forgot in the midst of my pre-Halloween festivities.
Whatever Christmas means to you, and whatever traditions you bring to your own holiday celebrations, strive to make it your own special holiday. Whether I realize it or not, even the faintest sounds of "White Christmas" are some of the most deeply comforting notes I will hear all year and will carry me joyfully through until next Christmas.
Comments