Celluloid Christmas

“Stop the car, stop the car,” my brother and I screamed in unison.
From the rear seat, ripe with the smell of fresh pine, having just chosen the tree that would grace our living room; we had implausibly seen the impossible.
“What,” my dad responded, trying in earnest to curb his anger at our ear splitting outburst?
“It’s Santa, It’s Santa,” we rejoiced in perfect monophonic stereo.
What is he doing here, so far in advance of his scheduled appearance on that night of all nights, my mind silently raced!
Spinning damage control with the finesse and expertise that only a board-certified Spin Doctor could accomplish, my mom confidently informed us, “It’s just one of his elves.”
His image growing larger in the rear window as dad reluctantly backed up, my brother and I sat spellbound, unsure of what to believe.
That’s some movie magic right there!
Year after year, I try to recapture just a shred of the glory that once was a part of the very fabric, which made that time so special. The arrival of a son in our lives who now completely gets the whole Christmas thing – at least the Santa side of it – has returned to us a modicum of holiday cheer, partly from holding his revered bearded hero over his head in an effort to keep him on the straight and narrow. I get a small thrill from watching him squirm when he knows that Santa really is watching him.
Hey, don’t be like that!

All parents experience that very same pleasure. Most are just not as open about it as I am. Admittedly however, I do miss the holiday memories that were special enough, large enough, to be worthy of celluloid, perfect made for TV holiday fare. The recollections I still have, stored deep in the recesses of my addled brain contain all of the elements for a great movie. There is an innocent child, a bumbling romantic, an adolescent coming of age, even an evil villain, trying not to steal Christmas… just Christmas lights.
Wow, that used to be fun.
Alright, again with the disapproving scowl!
I’ll have you know, that like Santa, I too can see everything, so...

“You better watch out…you better not pout.”

It was sometime around the age of three, when my son began to understand that Christmas morning meant something special.
“Hey buddy,” I prodded a mere millisecond after he stirred.
I had been waiting all night for this moment.
Check that.
I had quite literally been waiting decades for that very moment, a chance to see a hint of Christmas magic as I may once have experienced it. I silently pondered whether ol’ Scrooge had felt this way, as from the outside he gazed upon a life that once had been.
“Come on; let’s see if Santa was here.”
“I want milk,” he whined.
Again, with the milk I brooded, rolling my eyes while silently suppressing my still burgeoning parenting skills.
“I hope Santa had enough milk,” I cheerily countered, referring to the snack we had left on the windowsill.
Wearily, he followed my lead.

I could barely contain my excitement as we made our way up the hallway.
“Bed man walking,” I giddily felt like shouting!
My wife on the other hand had no problem in the enthusiasm department at that time of morning opting to sleep through it instead. With a sweeping fanfare echoing only within the recesses of my mind I flicked the light switch, gasped aloud, and proclaimed excitedly, “Oh my goodness little buddy, he was here!”

Time seemed to freeze for a second as he stared blankly ahead, not blinking an eye.
“Who did this,” he asked almost angrily, looking at the obscene amount of gaily-wrapped presents that littered our living room floor.
Therapy was my immediate thought.
First him.

Then me.
Is it possible he doesn’t believe? Did he wake up at some point during my four-letter word tirade as I’d fought with the little train set?
“Who the (expletive deleted) do you think did this, me and Mommy,” my sleep deprived mind nearly screamed?
My dissatisfaction was short lived as groggily, he began to come around, yet I had still been disappointed all the same. It had taken a long time to reach the point where some semblance of true holiday joy had returned to my life. Only a couple of weeks prior, I had still harbored no feelings of festivity.

(Enter the aforementioned bad guy)
An early shopper’s hype ad, an amazingly low price, an incredibly tight window of opportunity and the need for additional DVD players in the office give me a great idea. Knowing that there will indeed be a crush of holiday bargain hunters trying to cash in on such an unbelievable deal, I scope out the store two days before said event. My calm demeanor and courteous manner works its magic on the unsuspecting sales clerk who disinterestedly reveals to me the precise location at which said video units would be found. Smiling, I thank him kindly and slink back out to the street, rubbing my hands together in anticipation, not for the reward of procuring two of these sure to be coveted items, but more for the looks of dismay and disappointment on the faces of those who missed out.

**Author’s Note:
(It’s important here to familiarize yourself with the renowned holiday favorite, “Mister Grinch.” The italicized text denotes the verses that are sung, while the regular text indicates the vocal narration. I know it’s difficult. Bear with me.)**

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch!
And you’ll show them all who’s boss.
You staked out the store on Thursday,
Among the first on line on Saturday,
Mr. Gri-i-i-n-nch!
You denied Christmas gift-givers from getting off cheap,
Their scowls and their frowns, their scorn you did reap”

Walking out of the store that sale day morning to the musical accompaniment of disgruntled sighs and murmurs of disgust as I carried one unit under each arm filled the prescription I needed to ward off a case of the holiday blues, but like a trip to the chiropractor, the relief was short lived at best.

“You felt better, Mr. Grinch.
But the happiness didn’t last long.
Yes, you found it funny,
Saving the boss a little money,
Mr. Gri-i-i-n-nch!
You really weren’t happy, knowing you were wrong.
I’ll dispense with the lame lyrics; I’m really reaching with this song.”

“CUT,” I can almost hear the director scream, while he simultaneously fires the movie score composer.

Look, I’m not exactly searching for the meaning of Christmas, but there are times when I often find myself wondering, what happened to me?
Where went the magic, the wonder?
I used to think that having a kid would be enough to reignite those feelings of joy, which it does in part, but the normal stress of everyday life, work, the economy, hangs above; overshadowing what should otherwise be a delightful time of year.
The holidays are alive all around me, yet I find myself oblivious.
Maybe it started when the snow stopped, or when my growing mind began to realize that the much-needed white stuff for a geriatric sleigh fanatic was not in the forecast for the most important day of the year. Looking out the window at the brief expanse of brown lawn that as far as the nearby sidewalk, a sudden and unwanted dawning of understanding invaded my fantasy world.
“Mom,” I called worriedly from my post.
Luckily, I had still been young enough to warrant an immediate response.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay,” she asked breathlessly, having made a mad dash from the basement washing machine, setting a probable Olympic record, should such an event exist.
“How is Santa going to get here if we don’t have any snow?”
A momentary flicker of anger before applying her PhD in spin doctoring, she coolly responded, “He puts wheels on his sleigh.”
It worked for me.
Every kid wants to be older. I see it in my son, who tells me everyday he wants to be ten, something I am in no rush to see happen. With maturity comes responsibility, but kids don’t see it that way. Kids look at it with wide eyes and boundless possibility. I knew I was beginning to reach a higher plane when Christmas thoughts turned to gift giving rather than only receiving.

“A mailbox,” one of my classmates accused. “You got your parents a mailbox?”
It had not taken long for my younger brother to get the word out, resulting in ceaseless jeers and mockery from friends and classmates alike. Sure, we were not in dire need of a mailbox, but it had been both affordable and easily attainable within biking distance. It had also marked a small milestone in my young life, having had the discipline and foresight to save a few dollars from my seriously undeserved allowance!
I am not proficient in the art of gift giving.

“Ouch, I don’t see him faring well at all here,” The network sports type announcer, says with disappointment in his voice.
“I mean, what was he thinking,” the overpaid, and unnecessary second announcer laughingly adds.

“Let’s see what the judges have to say.”

“ There are no zeroes in this competition, so I give him a one. A girl needs something to show off to her friends, something to make them sick with envy. Any diamond will do.”
“Thank-you, Miss Fabulous. What about you, Mrs. Material?”
“I have a hard time awarding him a two! The choice of gift is awful enough, but Corningware? Certainly, a fine designer made piece would have suited her better.”
“Aw-w-w, whats’a mattah wit you broads? A ‘ting like this will keep her in the kitchen longer. I give him a ten, ‘cos there ain’t no elevens!”
“Well, no surprise there. Thank-you, Mr. Glutton.”
“That makes twelve points, compliments of the overweight male contingent on the panel,” the overpaid and unnecessary THIRD announcer adds unnecessarily.

I still defend the choice of cookware as a gift for my soon to be wife. Her long outdated and rusty hand me downs were both an eyesore and most likely unhealthy. Disappointed by her lack of admiration in my gift, I blamed it on the far below average lack of female companionship in my life to that point, directly resulting in poor gift-giving etiquette. I should have taken a hint from my earliest attempt at courtship and tokens of appreciation.

It was during the ninth grade when I had entered into my first long-term relationship, a far cry from the long-distance relationship I was still more or less embroiled in. It wasn't cheating as n’er the two should ever meet, and at such a tender change, what were the rules that governed a relationship?

Were there any rules?

The only rule I had broken was the cardinal token of appreciation ritual. I had not exactly lost sleep or toiled long and hard in trying to come up with a perfect present for my semi-betrothed, nor had it come to me in a dream. Frankly, I don’t remember how the idea popped into my subconscious, but suddenly like a welcome visit from an unlikely stranger, it appeared to me.
Lollipops!
It was perfect, a gift that did not say anything more than

“Hey, I like you."

"I like you a lot.”
Short of funds however; a condition I had long gotten used to, I opted not for the expensive swirly candy store type, but rather the free ones I had acquired from multiple trips to the bank with mom and dad.

Well of course, it was with mom and dad.

I had no business being inside any financial institution on my own.

Hey, it’s the thought that counts, I reasoned on the lonely walk home.
No, it’s not!

Fifteen years later, with not many more serious relationships under my belt, Christmas had become a time filled with feelings of melancholy. While friends were always in abundance, at the age of twenty-one, I had felt that something more was missing, the need for a significant other
It was on a lonely Christmas Eve when I had reached out to a dear friend who had been dealing with a bit of the holiday doldrums herself. Overcoming incredible odds, we had traversed several miles in my completely unreliable Volkswagen Dasher to view the official Long Island Christmas tree. Quietly walking across the parking lot, we linked arms, and gazed upon the magnificent sight. With her head on my shoulder, lost in our private thoughts, we held each other tightly as only two close friends could, appreciating the fact that in that special moment, at least we had each other.
And that was good enough.
It’s a bittersweet recollection that gives me thought for pause, a fond memory that will last forever.
That’s some movie magic right there!

I realize unselfishly now that Christmas is all about making memories. It’s the forming of memories for a five year old that will hopefully last his lifetime. I have an abundance of Christmas recollections that could probably fill a book, not all worthy of celluloid, though Christmas with the Chicken Pox might be worth looking into. It is not an easy task trying to get into the Christmas spirit now, yet it’s all about putting on that game face to keep a child’s dreams alive. I don’t know how he will handle the truth when that time rolls around. It’s hard enough now trying to keep the facade alive with Santa sightings beginning at sundown following Thanksgiving dinner. Just days before then, our wise beyond his year’s offspring elected to join us in bed for an impromptu early morning discussion relating to Santa’s whereabouts.
“Where does Santa live,” my wife cloyingly baited him.
Thinking about it for a second or two, he removed his favorite Thomas cup from his lips, slurped wetly, then confidently replied, “At the mall.”
I remember vividly the day my mom delivered the devastating blow to my unbelieving ears. Having walked home from school for lunch one bright afternoon, I had alluded to something I was considering asking Santa for. Mom paused, working out in her mind the easiest way to shatter the trouble free fantasy world I had been living in. I can’t remember the precise words, only that they had been both honest, heartfelt and carefully delivered. There had been a minimally brief moment of shock followed by sadness, then inexplicably without hesitation I was simply okay with it. Maybe in the back of my maturing mind somewhere I had already come to understand that there really was no plump gaudily dressed senior citizen flying around the cold December sky with a bottomless bag of toys for every child in the world.

It was a bittersweet moment, an early rite of passage.

I returned to school that afternoon a changed person, mature in the fact that I now shared a sacred secret with my parents that would be cherished until my younger siblings reached their moment of reckoning.
That’s some movie magic right there.
For anywould be producers, directors, and/or screenwriters who may inadvertently stumble across this holiday tale, have your people call my people. Until then, bless you all who have made it through yet another bona fide long-winded Morty yarn.
Happy holidays to all.
And to all, a good night.

The Pen is Mightier Than...Part III: A Blog Continues.

I started a new book on the bus ride in this morning, and no sooner should I reach the bottom of page one, do I come across this quote that sums up my sole reason for launching this site in the first place.

"A son is a promise that time makes to man, the guarantee every father receives that whatever he holds dear will someday be considered foolish, and that the person he loves best in the world will misunderstand him."

- - Ian Caldwell & Dustin Thomason

The Rule of Four

I repeat myself on this site ad-nauseum, but for those of you checking in for the first time I'll make my point one more (most likely not the last) time. My love for writing and dreams of being published set aside, the primary reason for contributing here really goes back to my son, with the hope that when this beloved little boy reaches his inevitable teen angst years, he might in the privacy of his own room, visit this site to read about his dad, and hopefully think to himself, "hey, my dad was pretty cool after all." There are no sordid tales here, no exploits of unbelievable irresponsibility. I could attempt to make them up, but not having lived my life that way, it would most likely come off as just that...made up. Not all of my life is exactly G-rated, however and some of the more "PG-13" / borderline "R" rated stuff may rear its head here one day.

I have often wondered if my dad and I shared the same special bond at one time in our lives that my son and I do. I have very few recollections of my youngest years. By the time I had hit High School - if not sooner - my parents seemed to take more of a backseat in my life. I suppose that's inevitable in the lives of most folks, and quite honestly it scares the hell out of me. Will there be a great hole, a bottomless chasm in my soul when my little one reaches that point? There were times during my college years when my dad would half-heartedly attempt to regale me with a tale or two of his carefree and reckless years, probably knowing that I was only half-heartedly paying attention. I was too wrapped up in my own world, which was really beginning to open up before my very eyes to miss even a second of it. Not until the birth of my own son (once we got over the earth shattering shock of having another living, breathing life form invade our once peaceful abode), did I begin to realize what his past meant to him, and how important it must have been for him to want to share it, only to watch it fall upon deaf ears.

This past summer as I was writing the tale of a 1987 road trip to the Virginia coast ("Awry: pronounced Orrie?" ca. aug. 2008), I came to the realization that this site is not only dedicated to my son, but to my dad as well, a testament to his past as he tried to convey it to me. There are times now when I think to myself, what I wouldn't give to have that chance now, to have a conversation, to listen, to learn, to get to know him on a deeper level. I really know very little about his past, and many of those who do are either long out of touch, or just simply gone...in that final sense. In a way, it almost presents a quandary here. Do I spend some time trying to find those who are left to fill in the blanks, or do I continue moving forward, not unselfishly doing what I love, while trying to leave a footprint of myself for my son, and hopefully his kids.

Dare I look that far into the future?

In a post 9/11 world, is there a future that lies so far ahead?

Darker thoughts aside, I choose to plow forward for now, still with the hope that my son will find this place interesting enough to even drop by.

How Many Christmases?

I'm sure the title of this post is completely misspelled, but how would one go about spelling Christmas in the plural sense? That said, the time for levity comes briefly to an end. Yes, with the conclusion of Thanksgiving, the "holiday" season is now upon us. Here in the Greater New York Area this time of year is often met with a little bit of stress. I'm not talking about stress of the shopping and gift giving type, but the uneasiness of yet another holiday terror alert. The day before Thanksgiving, a day that more often than not finds most folks in a lighter mood as they look forward to the long weekend ahead was merely a few hours old when the powers that be went public, telling us once again not to panic, live our lives as normal, but be vigilant. Another credible threat, this time to our subways and commuter trains may be possible during this otherwise happy time of year. The sight of National Guard troops and an extra police presence has become a daily part of the fabric of our lives. Complacency is once again the creed by which we greet everyday here as we watch (I'm assuming) with some degree of horror the recent events taking place in Mumbai without seriously considering the fact that it could happen here. This is now the way we are forced to welcome in the holidays in a post 9/11 world, with unsettling thoughts, wondering whether or not today might be the day.
Will we make it home unscathed to enjoy another night with our loved ones?
I'm not a fatalist.
I'm a realist.
Last Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve, I came across the blog site of someone I am honored to consider as an old friend. We had recently re-connected through the awesome power of the World Wide Web, something I pay deference to daily. Admittedly, my knee jerk/gut reaction to a posting titled Thankfulness Needs to Come from the Soul was, "Oh no, not another sappy holiday life changing confession, you could learn a lesson from this" type diatribe.
(Sorry, Tina).
I tend not to get caught up in the fervor of the holidays. Any warm fuzzies dissipated with the last tendrils of my youth, though having the opportunity to experience the magic and wonder of it all through the eyes of my five year-old son has alleviated that jaded feeling somewhat.
Out of respect, I did read Tina's posting from start to finish. It was compelling, well written and came from the heart. It didn't change my life however...at least not until I had reached home that evening to see the early news clips of all hell breaking loose on the other side of the world.
Timing is everything!
I don't often take the time to think about what I should be thankful for. Like most Americans I suppose, I take for granted the things I should be thankful about. I had a lot to sleep on come bedtime that evening.
Shortly following the conclusion of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade the next morning, where my son exhibited his first true hint of excitement at the upcoming Christmas holiday, having been convinced that Santa was waving at him through the television screen, I took a personal time-out to check e-mail and send one I had felt was now overdue.

Tina,

I read the recent posting on your blog site yesterday and was completely moved by your tale of what is now war torn India. Watching the Macy's parade with my son this morning was so normal, and gives me pause for thought. I'm thankful for "normal." I'm thankful to have re-connected with someone who briefly touched my life poolside at a Virgina Beach " Resort" some twenty years ago. I'm thankful that said "someone" is safe at home with family this year, celebrating the holiday far from where she spent it last year. My best to you and your family. Stay healthy, stay safe.

I often wonder how people in other parts of the country that are far removed from a major city react to increases in terror alerts, or if they are as senitively attuned to them as we are. If that weren't enough - more good news out of Washington.

WASHINGTON – A bipartisan commission is asserting the country should expect a terrorist attack using nuclear or biological weapons sometime in the next five years.
The report, which is scheduled to be publicly released on Wednesday, suggests that the incoming administration of President-elect Barack Obama should improve the capability of the United States to counter such an attack and to prepare if necessary for germ warfare.

From the very day I went public with this site, my goal was to keep this as a happy place, a sacred site to turn to just to get away from it all, have a laugh or two at my expense. I have often said both on this site and off, that I am not politically minded. Politics often brings out the worst in people. I don't take sides over which administration is to blame for the events of 9/11, and inwardly laugh at some of those who do. It really adds up to nothing more than finger pointing; he said, she said.

Now we hear that the incoming administration should essentially prepare for the worst. Shouldn't we have been doing that from sa-a-a-y-y 9/12?

Commuting in on the bus this morning, I briefly looked up from the book I was reading and was greeted with an early morning view of the New York City skyline in the distance, warmly welcoming the rising sun upon its face. Traffic was still light, the heartbeat that is New York had not yet reached its fevered pitch. Holiday lights and decorations were still glowing in that peaceful moment.

I got a chill, thinking back just a few minutes earlier to the news story I had caught the tail end of before heading out the door. Vice-President elect Joe Biden is due to make a presentation soon, discussing the probability of an imminent nuclear or biological attack.

I think of my family.

I wonder briefly, How Many Christmases?

How many more will we have the pleasure of spending together before the unimagineable happens?

I shook off the foreboding thought and went back to my book, a decent coutroom thriller that is reaching its end.

I am a New Yorker.

I return to living my life as I normally would.