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.

I Hate the U.S. Open

Tennis enthusiasts, don't take offense, I'm not a tennis fan. I know very little about the game over all. I know that points are scored as Love. Had I known it was that easy, I would have picked up Tennis years ago. What a boost to my delicate teen ego it would have been, even if I had scored just a little love! I wrote a story about Tennis once, wa-a-y-y back when I was in the tenth grade. The title was "Lost Love." I'll spare you the gory details. Saying that I hate the U.S. Open is like saying that I hate the Good Year blimp, or any corporate sponsored dirigible for that matter. Blimp's play a large part in my life. It may seem minuscule, but to me a blimp represents a goal, not in the sports sense however, but in the life sense.
It was a summer's day in 1974 when Lisa and I had met. In truth, we had actually met several years earlier at a far younger age. Our mom's had attended High School together, managing to do what a significant amount of the general public could not...Keep in touch. Lisa's family resided roughly thirty miles east of the small hamlet I called home on a street whose name I shall never forget; Bread and Cheese Hollow Road. Imagine trying to fit all of that on the front of a small white envelope. Her address was longer than the subject matter of the letters I would stuff inside those envelopes. Had there always been some undercurrent of romance dating back to our youngest years, I wondered? It was at a church picnic where we had wasted no time getting reacquainted. Young and temporarily in love, we were glued to the waist, walking proudly through the park, our arms around each other so tightly that I can still feel the bruised ribs today. We held hands, we rode the carousel, and reveled in that special type of magic reserved only for the innocence of youth. The only other memory my addled brain, with its talent of remembering some of the most inane details had retained, was her account of a family trip to Florida and a flight in a blimp. I was jealous. We had never ventured to such far off and exotic places. I had yet to travel by air, on either a plane or a zeppelin! That special day reaching its inevitable end, we were separated once again, relegated to future communication via the postal service or the occasional phone call. Ultimately, we failed to accomplish what our parents had for so many years and eventually lost touch. She did remain in my thoughts, having often played the role of the heroine in one or two of the short stories I had crafted in my Junior High and High School years. She was not the love interest in the aforementioned tennis tale, however. That leading role was played by a girl I had met camping some years later. I'll ruin the ending by telling you that she dies in that story.
By 1985, my writing in conjunction with my brief stab at higher education had long been abandoned. I was in a great mood one warm July afternoon, cruising through life in a dead end job with no future, no game plan, and no clue. It was a happy time, similar to what a Prozac moment might feel like. Stepping out for lunch, I looked to sky above where I could hear the unmistakable droning of a large propeller driven craft. I always love the site of a blimp lazily lumbering along. The unwanted memory crashed in with the angry force of rushing water.
"I'll never do that," I thought sullenly, recalling Lisa's age-old tale of flight. "I'll never get to Florida either. What the hell am I doing? What am I going to do with my life?!"
There was nothing surreal about it. That in-body experience was a crystal clear moment of clarity, a shocking wake-up call that depressingly set the tone for the remainder of the day. Eventually I found the power within to return to my fairy tale world, though its landscape had changed somewhat. I unconvincingly told myself that life would get better one day.
It did.
Florida happened for me two years later, the curse that I had brought upon myself finally lifted. It was in the early spring of the new millennium that the unimaginable happened. Called upon by the powers that be, in a job I had turned into a career, I was asked to attend a technology trade show in Sin City. I got on the web to do a little recreational research and found myself staring at the screen in total disbelief. Vegas.com on the launch of their new website was offering passenger's the once in a lifetime thrill to hop aboard their newly christened aerial billboard; the blimp. I had felt only the slightest degree of guilt, opting not to attend the tradeshow on the afternoon I had planned the flight. My timing could not have been any better as there were no other passengers scheduled. Due to contractual obligations, the vessel was required to be airborne regardless. My paltry fee for flight was an added bonus. It’s not a white-knuckle experience and can barely be compared to any type of extreme sport. With an arm hanging out the open side, the feeling is more like driving in a car on a newly paved road. Holding tightly to the attached ropes, a small group of people gently maneuvers the blimp, pointing it in the proper direction for takeoff. Once clear, the propellers roar and almost instantaneously the view of the horizon changes radically as we begin our steep ascent. It was an unexpectedly painful experience for me when without warning, a heavy piece of equipment fell forward, scraping and bruising my right shin. Apologizing profusely and inwardly hoping we wouldn’t be seeing me in court anytime soon, the harried pilot hastily shoved the unit back into position while I rubbed my battered bone and wondered how quickly or at what rate of speed we would be returning to earth. Apparently, the oversized electronics did not play an integral part in the function of flight. Later, in the vaunted pilot’s chair, I was instructed in the basics of operating the craft.
It was the least he could do.
Two wheels positioned on each side of the chair are used for flight control. Spin them forward and the vessel descends, backward and it points skyward. The top rate of achievable speed was no more than 45 M.P.H. Returning to our proper seats he demonstrated this by bringing the engines up to full speed and aiming us at the ground, which was in no rush to come up and meet us. Heading upwards again, the speed never changed. I wondered what the people below were thinking as they watched our erratic flight pattern. I had gotten well more than my money’s worth. With no passengers waiting at the airstrip for what would have been the next scheduled departure, we stayed in the air for over an hour, veering from the normal flight path so I could see my hotel from above. The view of the famous Vegas strip from that vantage point could only have been more magical had I taken the opportunity to see it at night. A fleeting thought of Lisa must have entered my mind at one point that afternoon. While I had not thought about her in years, she was inadvertently responsible for my being there and making it a priority to achieve a goal that I had long come to consider as insurmountable.
There are a lot of blimp sightings when the Open is in town.
Why do I hate the U.S. Open?
It simply signifies the end of summer.