I’m not having a shitty Christmas. But I stole this title from a chapter subheading in a Stephen King book (Fairy Tale), and I am thinking of stealing it for a chapter title for a novel myself, so clearly it’s on my mind. Let’s start by stealing it as the title of this post.
I have a complicated relationship with Christmas.
I enjoyed my childhood Christmases, as I imagine most kids enjoy Christmas. It’s Christmas! I’ve been examining my memories the past couple days to make sure I’m not sugar-coating things, and I can find no traumatic events hovering darkly at the edges. It’s a pretty serene world.
However. I remember clearly telling my Mom when I was about 11 years old that Christmas seemed different that year. I wasn’t filled with the same excited anticipation. My 11-year’s-old brain found it hard to put into words, but I said something about how I wasn’t looking forward to it like I used to. I was psyched, but not Christmas-level psyched. She told me it was because I was “maturing” (she used that exact word, and my memory mostly revolves around our short exchange), and that it was a good thing. I was growing up, she said. It didn’t make me feel any better. I wanted simple childlike excitement. I missed it. Some of the fun had leaked out.
I don’t recall if I fully regained my excitement at Christmas. Probably some of it. I think even at 11 years old I was erecting some sort of ironic distance from the holidays, and the world. (That’s a notion worth more careful examination someday.)
Let’s fast forward a few decades. As a young adult, I always celebrated Christmas at my parent’s house, and enjoyed it, right up to the time I had my own family. Those first Christmases were magic. Love like a drug, tumbling through my veins. I treasured watching Christmas through the eyes of my daughters. It was a more layered enjoyment than my childhood Christmases. I worried whether my daughters enjoyed their presents. I occasionally battled my Mom, who kept giving what I felt were too many presents. I kept an eye on the clock to make sure and get supper ready. I remember being crazy tired, from getting up so early.
So, while it wasn’t the simple uncluttered joy of my own childhood Christmases, it was pretty joyous, and for many years.
My wife got sick, and got sick hard, diagnosed with early onset dementia. We went to Disneyland the week before the diagnosis, and had Big Fun, in many ways experiencing our last vacation that was innocent of that disease.
Needless to say, the next several Christmases sucked, but my memory of that time is how guilty I felt at not providing my kids with a fun Christmas. We did the tree, we did the lights, we did the presents, but none of it mattered. Our house was just sad. Christmas was just sad. Even now I can picture our living room, and the Christmas tree. Sadness is wrapped around the whole damn scene like fucking tinsel.
Time passed. My wife died. We grieved. We still grieve.
Christmas got better.
When I moved my Dad and my kids to Colorado Springs I just handed Christmas over to my youngest daughter. I was done. The idea of putting up lights and a tree at our new house sounded so exhausting, and my younger daughter was eager to take the reins. There was NO traditionalism involved. We’d always cut down a real tree, she wanted a fake tree from the store. I said sure. I wanted to string our own lights, she bought a pre-lit tree. Cool. She abandoned my standard ornaments and went with the ones she liked. Fine with me. A few traditional ornaments (Curious George, the Abominable, Grandpa’s pickle) made it onto the tree, but not many.
She did Christmas well. She still does Christmas well, though for herself and her own family now.
More time passed. My Dad died. We grieved. We still grieve.
Christmas got better. Again.
I live with my second wife now. She’s Jewish, though not actively practicing. My kids are over 18 and out of the house. Christmas to me now is like hearing a story told in another tongue, one I have some familiarity with but no longer speak everyday. I hear the carols in the stores and enjoy them, sometimes even hum along. We have one ornament on a table, with a little winter sled. We have wrapped gifts around and under the table. I will do all the “Merry Christmases” when my daughters call/visit that day. I will do all the Christmas gift-giving. I will kiss my wife and greet her with “Merry Christmas” that morning, and we will spend our day surrounded by Christmas, but it will be in the background, like a far off tune. We’ll all have our Christmas meal of Mexican food. And at the end of the day, as we curl into bed together, we’ll celebrate with the only holiday ritual we’ve actually created for ourselves: we’ll chill and watch a Christmas-themed episode of “Friends.”
It’s a wonderfully small and personal gesture, but shines for me like the star on the top of a Christmas tree.
Merry Christmas everyone.
A postscript: The night I wrote this essay my wife and I went to see a theatrical radio play of It’s a Wonderful Life (a wonderful production, btw). I was primed for tears halfway through, and crying freely by the end (as I usually am during the movie). So, clearly, not all that Christmas stuff is wasted on me. That “the chains you formed in life” trope has some real power, and I like that it cuts two ways, both the Christmas Carol regrets and the It’s a Wonderful Life epiphanies.
My favorite line, always: "Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"
Peace.