When I was little, my older brother and I had a strange tradition. We’d put on my parents’ Andy Williams’ Christmas Show record album, get down on the living room’s hardwood floor—me wearing my Donald Duck pajamas—and spin around on our knees. We were whirling dervishes, accelerating to the music, and inevitably, hysterically wiping out into each other or the sofa (or both).
These kinds of behavior are hard to analyze. Was it a protest of absurdity against what we regarded as the cornball musical tastes of our parents? Was it a way of joining with the sentimentality of the season, on our own terms, in the least conventional way that we could fashion?
All I can say is that Christmas was a time of great excitement. There were the toys, the candy, the cookies, the snow forts, and the crackling wood in the fireplace. There was also the allure of miracles. Not that I was raised with a particularly strong sense of reverence for the season. When we broke out the Christmas ornaments, my mother used to put up a creche, but it always seemed as make believe as the stuffed animals and Matchbox cars I played with. In fact, I sometimes incorporated the nativity scene figurines into my imaginary games, with the wisemen and angels leading cross-country races through the house.
Science was the greater influence growing up so the Christmas story interested me from an academic point of view rather than a spiritual one. We lived in Buffalo, New York, and I assumed that the rest of the world was freezing cold and snowy in December. I wanted to know how baby Jesus survived in that straw-laid crib, barely sheltered by an open stable?
Santa Claus intrigued me even more. If he brought gifts to every single kid around the world, how long did that take? My brother and I looked up population data and calculated how fast Santa would have to travel to do his job in one night. Still, I believed. If it could be done by superheroes like Flash, it could be done by Santa.
I believed up to the time that I walked in on my mom and brother talking about a world globe he had gotten as a gift. My brother had questions about the Arctic Circle, and my mom was telling him it was all ice, no land, completely uninhabitable. I asked:
“But how does Santa live there?”
My mom looked at me with a slight smile, no doubt touched by my innocence, but the truth was there in the awkward silence. It had all been a deceit.
Even without Santa Claus or Jesus Christ, I always felt that there was something different going on this time of year—good will toward men, a little extra kindness, unexpected generosity. I like gift giving (and receiving) and sometimes think that maybe that’s enough of a reason to celebrate. Shouldn’t there be at least one time of the year where you go out of your way to give something to the people who are important in your life?
These days, Christmas morning is mimosa’s and hot cocoa while my partner and I unwrap our presents. Sometimes we’ll watch an animated film by Disney or Hiyao Miyazaki. Often, we’ll find ourselves back in bed for an afternoon nap. There are a few tasks to do like phone calls, cleaning up the breakfast dishes, and taking out garbage bags full of wrapping paper. But mostly it’s laying around in our pajamas and not caring for a day if we make it out of the house. That’s something worth looking forward to and reason enough for me to celebrate this time of year.
