The Long Lost Art of Saying, ‘Merry Christmas’
IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS AND I AM HAPPY. I used to go complete robot cattle stampede when it came to celebrating. I’d purchase a new, live tree every December, decorate the pants off it then plant it outdoors somewhere in January. Sometimes it would rest on the property, sometimes I’d cart it out to some lonesome canyon that Nature stopped short of perfect feng shui and could really use a baby Christmas tree. My daughter’s sneaking up on 23 and we still drive to our secret spots to inspect how our conifers are doing. Some are still around, 40-feet-high now.
My dear folks weren’t much on acknowledging 12/25-The Lord’s Birthday. Dad grew up dirt farm poor and, as a little boy during The Depression, an apple was the only thing Santa would bring. Insult to injury, they lived in an apple orchard. Mom was visited by darker, non-holiday elves with accusing whispers and sharp teeth. We didn’t decorate, sing carols nor exchange presents. I did sit on the lap of a department store Santa or two. When they’d ask what I wanted for Christmas, I’d whisper, “Can you possibly get me out of here?” I made a decision in my early 20s that I’d change the end of my own story and make the Big Whoop-Tee-Doo out of Christmas. If anything, I’d celebrate for myself. As an adult, I made sure my parents had a proper Christmas. That annoying one-liner about it’s better to give than to receive? It’s true. Mom and Dad would light up like — well — Christmas — opening presents and sitting in a festive house, complete with eggnog, lights, tinsel, crackling fire and a proper stuffed gorilla in a Santa hat atop the tree as a homage to King Kong.
I’d take dad on Christmas Day road trips. We’d head to desert, mountains or ocean. Yule Tide was observed in blessed solitude in camp chairs, overlooking miles of sandy emptiness, interrupted by tumbleweeds and black rocks, spit up by volcanoes millions of years ago. Or, we’d snowshoe for miles in untouched fresh powder. Sometimes? We’d sit, mesmerized, on a big log washed up on a beach, watching waves crash in and then race out.
Life has its ups and downs. The last few years have been what the untrained eye might call, “challenging.” Nothing wrong with a good challenge. Builds muscle, character. I’ve found God hasn’t dealt me anything yet I can’t handle. My daughter is back in the Midwest with her mom and except for a cherished Christmas Eve with some old and special friends, I’ll spend Christmas Day by myself. Why? I’m good company. I’ll take, and make, a few calls. I’ll visit Nature and can’t wipe the smile off my face at the thought of it. I don’t throw the giant parties anymore. I’ve already hosted the World’s Smallest Christmas (not, “Holiday”) Office Party for John Boston Books and it’s umbrella corporation, Scared o’ Bears Ranch. I’m the only employee. Polite soul I am, I acted surprised when I opened my present (a new pocket knife!). Decorations? A pine tree the size of a pencil adorned with one tiny bulb. I’ll read poetry, the Bible, some spiritual literature. It adds to my smile.
I’ve noticed something different in recent years. We seem to be drifting off a familiar and safe shore. People hardly say, “Merry Christmas.” I do. I get the strangest reactions. Some react as if I spit on them. There’s surprise, sometimes offended shock and I get the feeling an official report is about to be filed with the Grinch, Human Resources or the forever offended Woke Police. Heavens. Wouldn’t want to send some atheist, pearl-clutching Crabby Appleton into cardiac arrest.
Oops. It’s Christmas.
I’m not supposed to lie.
Actually? I DON’T mind sending some anti-Christmas Spirit grumpy-dump fanning himself all the way to the ICU for emotional triggering because that’s the reason why I’m forever atop Santa’s Naughty List.
A few December holidays ago, I said, “Merry Christmas” to a tatted-up Gen Z grocery store employee complete with a surly attitude and Home Depot bolts bisecting his noggin. He didn’t return my farewell with a, “…we’re not supposed to say, ‘Merry Christmas.’” He instructed me that — I, I — wasn’t supposed to utter that most foul curse of, “Merry Christmas.”
I really don’t like acknowledging I’m a flawed Little Santa’s Helper, especially over Winter Break. How un-Christ-like of me? I wanted to punch the guy. No. Grab him by the lapels, drag him acriss the counter as he screamed, “CLERK IN DISTRESS, CHECKSTAND FOUR!!!” over the intercom, stuff him into a shopping cart, then squeeze him like a brie through the grates. Instead, I took the high road. I bent over. Motioned for him to come close. I whispered, “Look at me.” Terror — the best of Christmas presents — filled his eyes. I said, “Merry Christmas. Say it back to me. With fervor and conviction” the “You Miserable Little Rusting Emaciated Ungrateful Wet Blanket Excuse For A Generation Dash Head Shaped Like A Naughty Reproductive Organ Or I Will Beat You To Death And Bury Your 54-Pound Body On Aisle 6 Behind The Pop Tarts” unspoken but implied.
Ah, self-righteousness. It’s the gift that just never stops giving, isn’t it?
I remember growing up and times were tough. But, whether it’s the realization that it’s Jesus’ birthday or that, in a mythical North Pole, merry elves were building toys, this time of year was supposed to bring out the best in people. Strangers would smile. Jew, agnostic, Kiwanis, they’d call back those two magic words, “Merry Christmas,” with such joy and gusto.
I’m so blessed with family, neighbors, friends and readers. Bottom of my heart? I wish a Merry Christmas to all you dear souls. Truly? Merry Christmas and forgive me for even seeing a grumpy checker with nose bolts instead of as the most divine of gifts — my fellow man.