Final Ramblings About Christmas

 “What is Christmas?” asked artist Agnes Pharo. “It is the tenderness of the past, the courage for the present, and the hope for the future.”

Christmas is like a typical Italian opera. There’s a sense of hopeful excitement as the holiday builds, then chaos when the day arrives and last, certain death when the eggnog is gone. After that, everyone circles around together and sings Auld Lang Syne, just like any Italian opera performance. 

Someone somewhere said Christmases of long ago were the memory of a dream that seemed never to end. To begin with, memory is a dream, which is why, at Christmas, we can suspend belief. That little red dot streaming across the sky could be Santa’s sleigh or the tail light of a giant Airbus A380. As Carl Sagan famously said: “the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence”. In other words, just because you haven't found absolute proof of something, doesn't mean it's definitely not there. Ask any lawyer: full agreement on that point. As political advisor Charlie Halloran said to the Judge in Miracle on 34th Street: “any lawyer who can prove that Santa Claus exists gets my vote”. 

It’s gratifying that for a little while we all aspire to be better versions of ourselves. I’m more patient and less of a cynic for a few weeks. I’ll let someone cut into my line at the grocery store if they’ve only one or two items. I’ve been known to hold a door open for someone else and I’ll pop some bucks into the Salvation Army red bucket, feeling sorry for the poor soul who is standing in the cold ringing the bell.

Christmas is a million little moments: a card from someone I haven’t heard from all year. I’m so glad that they’re still alive, even gladder if they ask to come and visit; there’s that joyous moment when I find a Christmas gift that I’m sure Scott won’t forget; and that long, tense, moment when the new sage dressing recipe finally appears to garner applause rather than turn to rock before our very eyes; that’s happened. 

When feeling bummed by the holidays, as can very easily happen for so many reasons, I suggest watching one or two of the best Christmas movies or, still bummed and wanting to stay dark, watch the best dark, or Anti-Christmas, movies. Here are mine. I’m not an ideologist; you can agree or not. 

Best Christmas Movies

It’s A Wonderful Life (of course)

A Christmas Carol (only the George C. Scott version)

The Bishop’s Wife (man vs angel)

The Holiday (best from this century)

Joyeux Noel (best foreign language)

Best Anti-Christmas Movies

The Ice Harvest (by far, my favorite)

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (can’t not love Robert Downey, Jr.)

Die Hard (c’mon, it’s a classic)

The Holdovers (students no one wants during Christmas break)

Bad Santa (sex, drugs, embezzlement, what’s not to like)

The Ref (Christine Baranksi and Judy Davis are delightfully evil and annoying)

Driving into town, I sing along with the carols on the radio. I find it comically ironic that Barbara Streisand and Kenny G have sold the most Christmas CDs ever; both being Jewish, as was Mel Torme. Oh Holy Night initially was banned by the Catholic Church in 1843 because it was written by a Jew. Today, fortunately, Jews are still standing and their music is still playing. They’re tough. Mazel Tov.

And speaking of songs, here’s my list of favorite, somewhat known (but not quite commercially prominent), Christmas carols and a little jingle:

Candlelight Carol by John Rutter

Somewhere In My Memory

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy

We Need A Little Christmas

The Holly and The Ivy

Christmas Time Is Here, Charlie Brown

I’ve just returned from yet another Christmas luncheon with most of the same people I see each week or month or at whatever event is churned up for charity by the locals and, even so, I’m quietly heartened to see their same smiling faces when they look back at me. Thank you, Dr Seuss and Charles Dickens. Thank you, for all those kind ladies’ generous smiles and words.

“Wrap me in cheesecloth and soak me in brandy”, wisecracked Ray Bradbury about Christmas. Yet he wrote three of the most poignant short stories about Christmas: The Wish, Dear Santa and The Gift. They’re hard to find but worth the read.

Christmas Fatigue

 It’s December once again and each year I ponder these two questions: is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Does pineapple belong on pizza? Yes and no. 

I scare people by saying out loud what I really think and don’t mind the outcome. If Clarence can get his wings, why can’t I? He was honest enough to say “you weren’t there to save him, George” so when I say “those shoes make your butt look fat” why am I the Grinch?

The joys of the holidays are small ones. Scott will press a discarded Heineken bottle cap into my hand and quietly whisper: “this is for you”. I know how much he loves Heineken so this small gesture leaves me touched. True love is oftentimes measured in small ways.

One epic drawback regarding December is that it is always in winter. I do hog the blankets because I’m small and get cold faster and more easily than he does, especially now that it’s so chilly. I can hum “baby, it’s cold outside” right along with Cher while I snuggle up to him. When we wed, Scott didn’t realize that our marriage vows included, falling under the ‘for worse’ part, “and her cold feet”. Meanwhile, he hums “you’re a mean one Mrs. Grinch” in harmony. I’m an acquired taste, I know, but so is chicken mole and people love it after a few bites. 

Christmas is somewhat of a Scrooge - Santa experience at our house. “You bought what and it cost how much?” Scrooge says. “But dear”, I protest, “you didn’t know what to get me for Christmas so I got this on your behalf, ahem, Santa baby.” For my part, I’m always mindful to keep his heart meds in plentiful supply. I just like to fire him up every once in a while to make sure those drugs are working. 

Christmas shopping is a cherished tradition; watching children pick out a muffin with the solemnity of a wedding ring, or meeting up with an old friend for lunch and shopping to remark about all the glittery objects that we don’t need, but still want, and who do I feel most sorry for, not the distraught young teenager or her mom who is saying “no way am I buying you gold latex tights for Christmas”. They will sort it out. Instead I feel sorry for the sales people who have been listening to Christmas carols since early November or even late October. No jury would convict a sales person who has been listening to “you better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout“, for going postal. (Are we allowed to say that anymore? Probably not. No disrespect intended toward mail carriers.) I’ve been listening to those same Christmas carols for over 70 years and they arrive sooner each year so, as a juror, I would feel compelled to suggest leniency if left with the fate of a sales person. 

Speaking of the post office, it’s also the time for sending out Christmas cards. In the past, it was a great time to read goofy Christmas letters from long lost friends. These days, if any of our cards are returned with “no longer at this address”, I always assume that means they are dead and then I’m grateful that we are still standing. Also, I’ve noticed that we receive many fewer cards than we had in the past. Scott says the cost of postage makes sending cards indiscriminately to people we haven’t seen all year prohibitively expensive. I silently opine that its because people don’t know how to write in cursive, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings so I, uncharacteristically, say nothing. Did you hear that, Clarence?

Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas: the lights, the eggnog, the tinsel, the baking aromas all through the house. The problem is that I’m somewhat terrible at it. I haven’t the stamina to put up a tree or decorate the house anymore so I hire it done. Frustrating? Yup, stressed, more so because I feel like a fake when our home’s decorations are complimented. And gift giving? Food and wine are always appreciated, so I’m told; anything that can be made to disappear is a welcome gift. The idea seems great while it’s rooting around in my head but how was I to know that the neighbors had celiac disease and couldn’t eat my cookies or that the party host is a member of AA. 

Christmas is kind and generous. Christmas is draining of energy and money. Christmas is a delusion that lets us believe that the season is shiny and joyous, except when it’s not. Christmas is about each quiet moment of love in a harried life. While we are fortunate to have friends and family gather at our table, there are just as many tables set for one. To assuage my guilt, I donate generously to the Salvation Army’s red bucket when I see one, although it really doesn't help in the long run. 

And while I’m probably not responsible for any bells ringing, sorry Clarence, I carry the words of the Grinch with me: It came without ribbons, it came without tags, it came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more. 

Whatever Christmas is for you, enjoy it but please, don’t ever make me watch Elf again.