Do you remember back in the Sixties and part of the Seventies, when you and your two older sisters and your two older cousins would enter a month-long state of frothing mania beginning on or around each December first? No, wait, sorry, that was me. Anyway, when we were kids, Christmas was a time of wild excitement. My father would always bring home a cardboard advent calendar, and each day we would gather ‘round to open the tiny cardboard door and read the uplifting message—usually a bible verse—inside. On Christmas Eve there was a tiny piece of chocolate, and I cannot recall how we managed to share it. Maybe they let me have it because I was the youngest and could also bellow quite loudly.

When Christmas Eve came around, we slept in our clothes, all the way down to the belts and the shoes, and got up at the first sliver of dawn to raid our stockings. If memory serves, we had to wait until our parents came downstairs to open the presents under the tree, but even that was a bit of a free-for-all. Many years later I learned the concept of having the youngest person present play “elf,” in which he or she presented the gifts to their recipients one at a time, and everybody watched each present being opened. Maybe my parents knew of this concept but dared not try it. The opening of every single present in the vicinity must have taken three minutes tops, and when it was over the living room was a  wasteland of torn paper, plastic toy cases, and bits of ribbon.

And oh, the toys! Battling tops, hot wheels, dolls that cried and wet their britches, puzzles. . .and the candy. Every year, my mother’s uncle Arthur, affectionately known to us as Uncle Pa, would drive up in his huge truck (he was a tiny man, who could just barely see over the steering wheel) and bring us a box of assorted chocolates that very well may have outweighed him. We tried to find the ones with caramels and nuts by pressing both thumbs into the flat surface of the chocolate shell until it broke; when the mass consumption started to die down, the box would be about a third full of squashed creams and jellies.

And now. . .oh, my Christmas cheer is a fragile thing, a thin flame that must be shielded from the harsh reality of the world. Please don’t make me get a Christmas tree. And what, oh what, should I buy for my loved ones. . . ? Really, though, if you play me some old-fashioned Christmas carols and encourage me to ration the treats, I’ll be fine. I wish us all peace and joy in this and in all seasons, and will leave you to sort your own mixed feelings, but not before I share this, from one of my very favorite YouTubers: Why December Is Always Exhausting – YouTube

And also this: my recommendation that you locate, if possible, an album of Christmas duets by Luciano Pavarotti and Leontyne Price, and that you listen to it as often as possible.

Peace on earth, and within our hearts, my friends.