Christmas Letter

CHRISTMAS LETTER

My family thinks I hate Christmas.
There is some evidence to support this.

I do tend to become ever so slightly sullen, quiet, and withdrawn during the holidays. Some less sensitive folk would aver cranky. But that is a petty misinterpretation projected on to the tabula-rosa of a tortured soul.

It is true I choose to bare the cross of Christmas as privately as possible. For example, I decorate the entire house, including the tree, by myself; taking advantage of the first moment after Thanksgiving to have the estate to myself all day. I slam a mug of espresso and am out the door before my precious family, clearly devoid of holiday memory, can even make it out of sight. I buy the tree, bring it home, and put a fresh cut in it before it goes ever so quickly into water. After all, it has to last over a month. I move furniture in the family room and create the “stage” for the tree. I take down the four large boxes of decorations which live carefully and lovingly packed in the garage. I open them and divide the contents into themes. Tree. Tables. Lights. Fireplace. Living Room. Family Room. Exterior. Etc. Etc. I move from caffeine to alcohol, a bottle of champagne smuggled to the refrigerator in the guise of a Thanksgiving beverage. I put on all five Christmas albums of Mannheim Steamroller, light the fireplace, no matter the temperature, and over the next 5 hours I turn a perfect, flawless, elegant museum of a home into a perfect, flawless, elegant holiday jewel.

In the weeks that follow, beleaguered adults with children, who lack the courage to impose their will on those who secretly crave it, flock to our house to bask in the holiday they have always imagined rather than the one through which they suffer. Colleagues vie for nights during which we graciously host the annual office festivities. The poor press their faces to the window, radiating a reverent awe befitting the Wise Men.

And so…..when my family returns, I beam proudly, rich and oaky cabernet in hand, while they, in turn, lumber off like fat reindeer that didn’t make the cut, mumbling something about the sullen, quiet, and withdrawn Grinch who wouldn’t let them participate and so stole Christmas.

Bah- Humbug.

Not that I don’t have good reason to loathe the season.
I do.
My father died on Christmas Eve.
There.
Top that.

I was nine years old. December 24, 1961 fell on a Sunday. My father, pastor of the Baptist church, had preached that morning, come home for a quick lunch, and then headed to the hospital to visit the sick. I never saw him again. And every year after, with the inevitability of Scrooge’s ghosts, my mother would announce the time.
“You know, it was 1 year ago today daddy died.”
“You know, it was 5 years ago today daddy died.”
“You know, it was 20 years ago today daddy died.”
“You know……….”

Yes, I knew. God how I knew. I was well aware how long it had been and knew exactly when the ghostly time piece would announce it. But has that spoiled Christmas for me? Has that taken the joyous holiday season and ground it into the dirt like so much horse shit beneath the relentless wagon wheels of time?

Certainly not.
I love Christmas.
Or at least I used too.
I used to when I was “creating” Christmas for so many people.

Time was, I wrote, directed, or performed in 50 or more events between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. And it was work; let me tell you, the preparation for which often began in April, right after Easter! Long hours. Tedious rehearsals. Lengthy travel. Lots of candles.

But when it was over, I had DONE Christmas, make no mistake. People laughed and cried in all the right places because of what I did. I didn’t just celebrate it. I formed and molded it. I hand delivered Christmas on a platter trimmed in mistletoe to hundreds, nay thousands, of people. And it felt great. Not only that, it completed obliterated any contemplative sense of sorrow and loss that I might feel. I was much too busy putting out. There was no time for looking inward.

These days, of course, it’s different. It’s a double barreled disaster.
No midnight services. No shows. No caroling. No TV appearances. No traveling. No applause. No tears. No laughter. No joy. No Christmas!
just quiet. peaceful. boring.
And to make matters worse, the entire fucking family is home 24/7 for two weeks. Imagine the horror of a concentration camp in the middle of Disneyland. It OUGHT to be a happy place. It SHOULD be a joyous time. And yet ALL the evidence is to the contrary. No amount of tinsel and fake snow is going to redeem the Happiest Place On Earth when you are surrounded by barbed wire and a bevy of inferior beings who don’t even have enough sense to appreciate the serenity and unending pain of the season.

So you see? I don’t hate Christmas. I love it. I adore it. I milk it for every snow covered, pumpkin flavored, jingle filled ounce of joy it has in it. The problem these days is…..that I can’t find it. And I’m no longer in a position to create it, for others or, consequently, for myself.

So I hang out at the malls. I watch White Christmas. I go to Disneyland.

Once, on a visit there a few years ago, my wife and I stood watching Santa. He holds court (or used to before his displacement to a cabin behind Big Thunder) on the small hub in front of the train station. There is a HUGE tree with gigantic decorations. And music. Children sit in his lap. Some of them cry. Some of them whisper their list. It’s wonderful. And on this particular occasion, as Santa scanned the crowd, he waved at me and said,
“Ho Ho Ho. Hello Bruce. Have you been a good little boy this year?”

Could have knocked me over with a reindeer feather.

“No, he has not.” My wife yelled back.
I was too stunned to defend myself, or even wave to the crowd staring at me.

It was a reasonable guess that Santa knew me. After all, he knows everybody, including who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. But I did not know Santa. And I wanted to.
“Obviously it’s someone I’ve done a show with,” I said to my wife, too befuddled to sweat the errant preposition. “Go ask the guard-elf at the rope who he is.”
So off she went. I watched them confer. Eventually she smiled at the elf and came back to where I was standing.
“Well?” I asked.
“I went up to the elf,” she said, “and asked if she knew Santa’s real name. Do you know what she said?”
“No.”
“She said, ‘Kris Kringle?’”

We both laughed until we cried. It was a Christmas moment. Yes it was!

But what about now? What about this year? Where do I find Christmas?

There are those who seem to take some pleasure in family, apparently able to tap into the joyous underpinnings of the holidays vicariously through the exuberant laughter of children. But I hate my children.

Actually, that’s not true. I’m just jealous of them. I’m jealous of all the time they have and how miserably they waste it. They have all these wonderful days and months and years ahead of them and they piss it away being unjustifiably angry and constantly texting about it. Given their mental acumen, these could well be the best days of their sad, miserable little lives and the ignominious twits don’t even have the sense God gave a Christmas goose to be grateful for every waking minute of it. But I don’t hate them….really. I do, however, hate being cooped up with them and it only makes matters worse that I can’t find Christmas!

You know, here’s a thought…….

Just because I’m in no position to create Christmas for the masses, that’s no reason I can’t bring the joy of the holidays into the lives of my own precious family. I think I’ll find a day right after Thanksgiving. An entire day when I have the house to myself. And then I’ll turn it into a winter wonderland of happiness and good will toward men. Lights. Decorations. Nutcrackers. Tapestries. Music. The Tree!

And when the family returns from a day of spending my money it will be to a flawless holiday home, dripping with tasteful dignity and worthy of the cover of Vogue. How surprised and happy they will be, my family. And they deserve it. They deserve it for all the peace and contentment they bring me throughout the year. It’s the least I could do for them. You know….to say just exactly how much I love them for who they are.