For many years, my mother’s extended family celebrated Christmas–the eve and the day–at my great aunt Katie’s home because she had the longest and widest dining room. We put three large tables together so the entire family—kids included—could sit at the dinner table together. The Christmas tree, with everyone’s presents beneath it, occupied her living room. Before I tell you about one particular Christmas nightmare at Aunt Katie’s, I need to fill you in on the stars of this misadventure: my second cousins, the fraternal twins M and B.

When I was a little girl, my grandfather bought a large older summer home in a small town on Long Island. He invited several family members to spend the summer there. M and B were approaching three years old at the time. While their parents and everyone else, including the older kids and me, were unpacking and doing other chores, M and B got hold of the pieces of hardware needed to assemble their cribs, took them into the bathroom, and flushed them down the porcelain facility. Now you know what demonic spawns of Satan these little darlings happen to be.

At Christmas dinner that same year, while the rest of the family was enjoying a scrumptious dessert of Italian pastries, M and B managed to slip away without being noticed. We were clearing the table when their mom looked around and saw they were gone. She called out to them. Silence. Uh-Oh. Panicking, she shrieked, “Find them!”

We scattered to search. The kids and I ran outside to see if they sneaked out to play in the snow. That’s when we heard the mother of all primal screams that pierced the house’s windows, walls, and siding—the loudest Oh my God I’ve ever heard. The kids and I ran back inside to the sight of all the parents and elders huddled together in the entrance to the living room, hands pressed to their temples, jaws slackened, eyes widened in dismay. Did they find M and B? Were M and B hurt? We squeezed between them to see what it was that freaked them out. There they were on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, little M and B, in the midst of a blizzard of torn wrapping paper, ribbon, empty gift boxes, and the contents of all the empty gift boxes. The horror. We all played detective for the next hour trying to remember who bought what for whom. Not a very Merry Christmas. M and B went on everyone’s Naughty List.

My parents’ six-month-old Viszla puppy was a chowhound of the first order. If anyone left food within his reach, it disappeared into his bottomless pit of a stomach instantaneously. I was in Graduate School, still single, and still living at home when this after Christmas culinary nightmare occurred. A few days after Christmas, we gathered in my maternal grandparents’ apartment for a post Christmas dinner of leftovers—antipasto, ravioli, meatballs and sausage, salad, and the main course of leftover beef roast, vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy. We polished off the first four courses and were ready for the roast. My dad went into the kitchen to carve it, only to discover his Viszla puppy standing on a kitchen chair, front paws on the kitchen table, muzzle in the gravy boat as he lapped up every last drop of gravy. Fortunately, according to Dad, the roast itself was just beyond the puppy’s reach. [I still have my suspicions.] Unfortunately, there was no gravy for the leftover roast and taters that night. Pass the ketchup, please.

There’s nothing worse than being sick at Christmas time. I know. I’ve been there. It’s a nightmare to be sure. Macho Guy and I knew we were all coming down with something gross the day we were supposed to drive to New York to spend Christmas with my mom. We called to beg off, but she wouldn’t hear of it. If we were sick when we got there, she said she’d take care of us. That year was her turn to host the four of us for Christmas, and she wasn’t about to forfeit her turn. We knew we’d never hear the end of it if we failed to show, so we bundled up in the car and headed north. Once we arrived, she tried to get us to eat dinner, but the mere thought of food…ugh. We all went straight to bed.

Mom was relentless. No flu virus was going to spoil her plans for Christmas. She had invited my two nephews to stay at her place while we were there so they would get to spend time with their cousins. We strongly advised against it. That advice fell on deaf ears. As a result, her apartment eventually bore a distinct resemblance to a hospital ward. Instead of caroling on Christmas Eve, her six patients were hurling. On Christmas Day, the rest of the family gathered in my grandparent’s apartment on the floor above while we six sickies were quarantined in Mom’s apartment below. Amazingly enough, Mom never caught the flu from us. I’m convinced the flu didn’t dare to spoil her Christmas by infecting her.

And then there was the time our American Eskimo devil dog committed Christmas sacrilege. While our family members slept all snug in their beds on Christmas Eve, that dastardly devil dog snatched Baby Jesus from the manger beneath the Christmas tree and gnawed his head off. We were aghast. There was a donkey, an ox, a sheep, and lambs in the manger surrounding Baby Jesus. Couldn’t devil dog have chewed one of them instead? Why Baby Jesus? And now what was to become of our headless Baby Jesus? We couldn’t very well toss him in the trash. Do we bury him? Cremate him? We had never faced a situation like that before. Then a frightening thought occurred to me. As devil dog’s owners, MG and I were responsible for his despicable behavior. I expected to be struck by a thunderbolt at any moment. So, would we receive divine punishment? Or would we be forgiven for the evil perpetrated by our devil dog? What would our fate be? I still dread the thought. Holy Christmas nightmare!

After the reunion ended, we stayed on for a family visit, mainly to help MG’s older sister in her quest to downsize from a three-bedroom split level to a one-floor condo. An additional quest involved persuading her to be more active in communicating with the rest of the family via email and on Facebook. She needed a device that was more user-friendly and more mobile than her old PC minitower so she would be more apt to use it. To that end, we [that is, I] helped her shop for and select an iPad.

That shopping trip to Best Buy was personally devastating to me. When we approached the Apple product center, I felt the  stirrings of new tech lust. There on the counter were shiny new Apple devices. All models were newer and more up to date than my own. They silently mocked me while I drooled over them.

It was torture and so unfair. The iPad Air and iPad Air2 were thinner and lighter than my seemingly ancient iPad 3, but had the same size screen. Forget MG’s big sis, I wanted one for myself, but somehow I managed to get my tech lust under control. I smiled through my envy and helped my sister-in-law select the model–iPad Air or iPad Air2–that best met her needs. Drat.

The situation worsened. I foolishly allowed myself to cast my gaze upon a new MacBook. In inquiring about the new MacBook and the MacBook Air, I mentioned to the Apple Rep that I had a MacBook Pro. He responded that while Apple still makes and sells them, the MacBook Pros are older technology.

Older technology? His pronouncement cut me to the quick. I was in possession of older technology, blithely unaware that my MacBook Pro was yesterday’s news. The horror.

My sister-in-law purchased a shiny new better-than-mine iPad Air and we headed home for her first lesson. Since MG was woefully unqualified to teach her how to use it, that task fell to me. Big Sis did so much better than MG at learning to use the iPad, it’s tough to believe they’re related.

I’m back home now, writing this post on my iPad 3. I wish I could say that I managed to get past my envy and new tech lust, but since I’m sitting here wishing I were writing this on an iPad Air2, we’d all know I was fibbing. I want an iPad Air2, and I want the new MacBook. Unfortunately, instant gratification is off the table. It’s already past my birthday and past Mother’s Day. If only Christmas wasn’t so dang far off. Drat, drat, drat!

Classic and Nostalgic—

Miracle on 34^th Street, the fabulous 1947 original in black and white—not the inferior 1994 Technicolor remake. It’s a Wonderful Life, well of course. White Christmas, natch. [I never miss an opportunity to watch the late, multitalented Danny Kaye perform.] The incomparable Peanuts gang in A Charlie Brown Christmas, definitely. I encountered one disappointment. I couldn’t find a TV listing in my area for March of the Wooden Soldiers [aka Babes in Toyland] the musical comedy classic starring Laurel and Hardy. A Google search turned up an opportunity to watch a free showing on Hulu. I hadn’t yet tried hulu, so it will be a Christmas first for me.

Contemporary and Nutty—

The insanely funny A Christmas Story [based on Jean Shepherd’s insanely funny In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash].  ::snicker, snort::  National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation [they should have added “from hell” to the title]. Home Alone 1 and 2, The Santa Clause 1 and 2, and Elf 1. ::chuckle, snort, cackle::

Heartwarming—

The Hallmark Channel’s annual month of Christmas movies—including Hats Off to Christmas, which was co-written by Deanna Talcott [shameless plug for one of my writing buds].

Heart Stopping—

I find The Polar Express kind of creepy-scary. Don’t forget that cup of hot chocolate while you watch.

Classic, Nostalgic, Heart Stopping, and Heartwarming—

Today is Christmas Eve, which means it is at last time for Charles Dickens’ memorable A Christmas Carol, la crème de la crème, the ultimate fictional Christmas story, my Christmas movie guilty pleasure pièce de résistance.

There have been a number of cinematic incarnations of A Christmas Carol; some theatrical film productions, some filmed for television, and some animated. I’ve viewed most of them. In my estimation, none have equaled or surpassed the1951 black and white British production—which was restored recently and is undeniably the very best filmed version there is for a variety of reasons.

The main reason is its casting, primarily that of Alastair Sim in the role of Ebenezer Scrooge. His portrayal of Scrooge is perfection and not to be missed; he is Ebenezer Scrooge. He and the rest of the British cast bring Dickens’ characters to life in a way that is wondrous to behold. The Victorian costumes, the period sets, the music, and the dancing all ring with authenticity, and I believe filming in the starkness, shadows and gloom of black and white makes this Christmas ghost story all the spookier. If Dickens were alive today, I’m sure he would love it. Merry Christmas, All, and as Tiny Tim says, “God bless us, everyone.”

Do you have a guilty Christmas pleasure to share? Please be sure to leave a comment if you do.

In the passage of time, I forget whatever it was that I put in the safe place that is so safe that it’s safe from me as well because its whereabouts are no longer known to me.

I’ve been told I’m a pack rat because I never throw anything out. I dispute that. I believe pack rats know exactly what they have and where they put it, and they keep their stuff because they like it and want it. I never throw anything out because I don’t remember where I put it and don’t remember having it in the first place. Not a pack rat.

Now that we have that settled, we can move on.

One of my grandsons is deeply into the Star Wars universe. He loves all things Star Wars, even LEGO Star Wars. Guess what? Grandma collected Star Wars memorabilia in the day. My grandson and the rest of his family will be visiting during Christmas break, and I thought I’d surprise him with some of my treasures from that Galaxy Far, Far Away.

So I went hunting for my Star Wars stuff. In the family room cupboards. In the catchall room (treadmill, sports gear, kids toys, arts and crafts, and that old standby miscellaneous). Last, but not least, in my office closet (the location of Earth’s Black Hole—where things go in, never to be seen again).

In the family room cupboard, I found a “Destroy the Death Star” board game. I bought for my sons when they were young. It’s in very good shape, except for being missing two tiny X-Wing Fighter game pieces.

In the catchall room, I found a poster from LucasFilm in its original cardboard mailing tube. Apparently, I forgot about framing it, or forgot about it altogether (more likely).

In the black hole—my office closet—I liberated a few more treasures: an intact die cast Millennium Falcon, a slightly damaged die cast Imperial Destroyer (missing Princess Leia’s starship), a Star Wars report folder, and a book of Star Wars iron-on transfers of all the original Star Wars characters. (Was Harrison Ford ever that young? Wow.)

The Star Wars hunt yielded other forgotten treasures. I rediscovered individual Star Trek episode slides that I bought at a convention, several Hallmark Star Trek Christmas tree ornaments, and three aging Star Trek computer games and compendiums for PCs that cannot work on my MacBook Pro and so are now useless to me. I also uncovered a Raiders of the Lost Ark movie theater poster.

Probably the coolest and most valuable forgotten hidden treasure finds were two signed prints of cover art by the late Frank “Kelly” Freas, the acknowledged dean of science fiction illustrators. (His illustrations of the cast of characters from the original Star Trek series are in The Smithsonian.) The prints I have are of the illustrations for “The Ark of Mars” by Leigh Brackett in Planet Stories, September 1953, and for The Warriors of Dawn by M.A. Foster, DAW Book No. 135.

I was a volunteer at a science fiction convention I attended some years ago. The job I drew was to pick up the guests of honor at the airport and drive them to the con. Since I possessed the only car that was clean and in working order, I had the privilege of chauffeuring Kelly Freas, his wife, and SF author Frederick Pohl for the entire weekend. I heard lots of great stories about Science Fiction’s Golden Age while in that driver’s seat, and we all had a rollicking good time together. I bought the two prints and asked Kelly to sign them for me. He did better than that; he inscribed them. One he inscribed for me “with warmest regards,” and inscribed the other for me “with affection and appreciation.”

Those prints are more than mere collector’s items and you can believe I won’t lose track of them again. I’m going to have them framed and hang them on my office wall so there won’t be any danger of them becoming hidden treasures ever again.

And now, with the exception of the prints and the Star Wars items for my grandson, I have to put the rest of this stuff back where I found it. O joy.

They bought the little tree. They also bought two boxes of ornaments and a plastic star, also on sale, to decorate the little tree’s branches. They rushed home to their apartment, delighted with their bargains, and set about assembling the little tree. When they were done, she thought the little tree had a very merry look about it. Its curved up branches reminded her of smiles.

The ornaments they bought happened to be all one color—blue. The ornaments were not the traditional red and green Christmas colors, but the little tree wore them well—for three years—until the couple moved, became a tiny bit more affluent, and had a child. They bought a much bigger artificial Christmas tree. They left the little tree, alone and lonely, tucked in its box in the attic of their new home. They put the little tree’s blue plastic star atop the much bigger tree and hung the little tree’s blue ornaments on its branches.

The couple had another child after a few years. Soon, prior to Christmas each year, the two young children brought home handmade Christmas ornaments from school. Their handmade ornaments were also added to the branches of the much bigger tree.

Years later, the couple and their children moved from the South to the North when the dad received a promotion at work. Their new home had a cathedral ceiling. It also had a central fireplace attached to a very ugly, very odd-looking indoor fountain. They dismantled the ugly fountain immediately and turned it into a planter.

That first Christmas in their cathedral ceiling home, they decided to buy a live Christmas tree. They went out and bought the tallest tree they could find. As tall as it was, it didn’t reach the ceiling, but it did look impressive. They had to climb on a ladder to decorate the highest branches. One of their firstborn son’s teenage friends was so awed by the tree that he dubbed it “The Christmas Sequoia.”

The much bigger artificial tree never made it out of its box that year, but the little tree did. The couple decided the little tree would look very cool set up in the planter surrounded by all the wrapped Christmas gifts. The Christmas Sequoia used up all the store-bought Christmas ornaments, so the mom suggested decorating it with all the handmade Christmas ornaments their teenage sons had created during their elementary school years. The little tree wore them with pride.

That year also produced The Christmas of Shame. The Christmas Sequoia failed in its duty to protect The Manger beneath its branches. During the night, the couple’s incorrigible American Eskimo devil dog abducted the little Baby Jesus from The Manger and had most of him for a midnight snack. The little tree witnessed the sacrilegious atrocity but it could not speak and was unable to testify. Fortunately, the couple discovered forensic evidence that convicted the incorrigible devil dog of the hideous crime.

Humbly, the little tree held the secondary place of honor in the planter for several more Christmases. Soon the grown children moved away and the couple decided to downsize. They moved to a raised ranch on a small lake. At Christmas, they took the much bigger artificial tree out of its box, Assembling the much bigger tree was difficult. They noticed signs of age and breakage, so they set it outside for the trash collector. The little tree had cause for alarm. It was older than the much bigger tree. It waited anxiously but no one came for it to toss it out with the trash.

Shortly after Christmas, a newer and even larger box joined the little tree in the attic. The label on the newer and even larger box identified the contents as a 7-foot tall pre-lighted artificial Christmas tree. The little tree realized another big tree had taken its place once again. Its little heart ached with disappointment.

The following Christmas, the couple took both tree boxes down from the attic. The great big pre-lighted artificial tree nabbed the place of honor to the left of the fireplace in the upper level living room where the Christmas decorations were tasteful and elegant. The little tree was relegated to the lower level family room where it was surrounded by garish guyified Christmas decorations suitable only for a man cave.

Fortunately for the little tree, the mom saved it from total humiliation. She got out the box filled with the handmade Christmas tree ornaments the couple’s grown children had created when they were in elementary school. Her eyes misted as she hung them on the little tree’s branches with care. She then placed a brand new angel atop the little tree. The little tree nearly burst with pride. Its lights twinkled brighter than ever that year.

It was the same story Christmas after Christmas—assemble the great big pre-lighted tree upstairs, the little tree downstairs—until one year the couple had an epiphany. Having to put together and take apart two artificial Christmas trees every year was a drag. They checked, and sure enough the little tree was small enough to fit under the stairs to the lower level without taking it apart. They could leave the lights and ornaments on the little tree, just remove the Angel from the top, and throw a sheet over it to keep it dust free before tucking it under the stairs. It was a stroke of genius. The storage nook under the stairs became the little tree’s new home.

Then came the year of the big change. The grown children had children of their own. They no longer wanted to travel with their children and all the Christmas gifts to visit their parents at Christmas. They wanted their parents to travel to visit them at Christmas from then on.

The dad lost most of his enthusiasm for Christmas decorating. He couldn’t see his way to doing much decorating if the couple wouldn’t be at home for Christmas. At first, he hauled out the great big pre-lighted artificial tree and set it up in the upper level living room. He didn’t bother with the little tree at all. It languished under the stairs for a few years that seemed to stretch into infinity.

About a week ago, everything changed again. On the morning after the family’s Thanksgiving celebration, Grandpa drafted his grandchildren to help decorate Grandma and Grandpa’s Christmas tree. He elected to leave the great big pre-lighted artificial tree in its box in the attic. He chose to retrieve the little tree from its home under the stairs instead.

The grandchildren shrieked with surprise when their grandfather slid the little tree out from under the stairs and removed the sheet that covered it. They followed him up the stairs to the upper level living room where he set the little tree on a round table in the lone place of honor to the left of the fireplace. The humble little tree was overjoyed. It had come full circle.

The decorating commenced with zeal, and soon the little tree was resplendent with both store-bought and handmade ornaments, beads and garlands, twinkle lights, and a bright shining Angel on top. Grandpa asked Grandma to adjust the little tree’s branches because they curved up too much. She decided not to. She left the branches just as they were because they made the little tree looked so very merry.

As a matter of fact, its curved branches made the little tree look as if it were smiling all over.

You don’t believe me? I suppose I can’t blame you. It does appear to be an outrageous claim–but I did it. Truly. I swear.

You may wonder how I was able to accomplish such a stupendous feat. As the saying goes: It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. I just happened to know Santa.

Actually, I knew three of them. I was a reporter on the staff of a local newspaper at the time, working on a feature story during the Christmas season. My story spotlighted the volunteer work of three local gentlemen who dressed annually as Santa Claus.

I interviewed all three and they told me heartwarming stories of their personal experiences portraying Santa and how much fulfillment they derived from bringing happiness to children. One of the Santas told me that he also visited the homes of family and friends as Santa on Christmas Eve. He asked if I had children. When I said yes, he asked if I would like him to visit my children on Christmas Eve.

Would I? You’d better believe I would. Firstborn was starting to show signs of not believing. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when Santa arrived on our doorstep.

On the day before Christmas, it was all I could do to keep my secret to myself. I finally told Macho Guy just to keep from bursting. Once the sun went down, we eagerly awaited a knock on the door, signaling Santa’s arrival.

The knock finally came, and I ran to the door.

ME: Look who’s here, everybody!

SANTA: Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!

MACHO GUY and ME: Merry Christmas, Santa!

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [mouths hanging open, eyes wide as saucers, in whispered voices] Sa-a-anta.

SANTA: [Sits on couch with both boys] Have you been good little boys?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

SANTA: You have? Let’s See. Do you listen to Mommy and Daddy and do what you’re told?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

SANTA: Do you remember to say please and thank you?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

SANTA: Do you keep your rooms clean and tidy?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

SANTA: Do you do your homework when you’re supposed to?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

SANTA: Do you eat all your vegetables?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

SANTA: Do you remember to brush your teeth and go to bed on time?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

SANTA: Keep up the good work, boys. You’re on Santa’s Nice List. [standing, preparing to leave] I have to be going now. It’s almost time to deliver Christmas presents to all the good little boys and girls.

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, both speechless]

ME: Thank you for  stopping by to see us, Santa. We know what a busy night this is for you.

SANTA: [going out the door] Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

MACHO GUY and ME: Merry Christmas, Santa!

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [wave good-bye, both speechless]

ME: Were you boys excited to see Santa?

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [nod vigorously in unison, still speechless]

MACHO GUY: If you two want to stay on the Nice List, you’d better be in bed and asleep when Santa comes back with your presents.

FIRSTBORN and LITTLE BROTHER: [shriek and make a mad dash for the stairs and to their rooms]

ME [to MACHO GUY]: You are so evil.

MACHO GUY: You’re jealous because you didn’t think of it first.

ME: Oh, right. It’s not their bedtime yet. We always let them stay up a little later on Christmas Eve.

MACHO GUY: They deserve to go to bed early. They lied through their teeth to Santa.

ME: Tell me about it. But you have to admit it took guts to lie to Santa’s face.

MACHO GUY: [Putting his hand to his ear] Listen. Do you hear that?

ME: What?

MACHO GUY: [smiling] Silence.

ME: [smiling back] Blessed silence.

MACHO GUY: Alone at last.

ME: This could be our best Christmas Eve ever. Remind me to thank Santa.

I do not care for giving the day after Thanksgiving such a downbeat name as Black Friday. I think Black Friday would be more appropriate in October at Halloween.

The first time I heard the phrase, I thought a disaster of major proportions occurred on that day in the past—for example, an extinction-level volcanic eruption such as Krakatoa or a stock market crash. A salesclerk patiently explained to the clueless that it was just the opposite of disaster: merchants coined the name because it is the biggest sales day of the year for them and is so lucrative it is the day that puts retail stores “in the black” [ink, that is]. Charming. Maybe it’s just me, but Thanksgiving and Black Friday are like oil and water. On the fourth Thursday in November, we gather our families together to be cheerful and thankful for our blessings, and then the day afterward is (gasp) Black Friday when many of us shop till we drop. Occasionally, some shoppers literally drop other shoppers who stand between them and one of a store’s few door-buster sales items. Perhaps Feeding Frenzy Friday would be a more descriptive name than Black Friday.

I’ve been shopping online for the past several years. The phrase Cyber Monday sounds more upbeat and benign than Black Friday, doesn’t it? It’s much more convenient and less of a hassle to go from one website to another than it is to drive from one brick and mortar store to another and hunt for non-existent parking spaces before one even gets to shop at all. When I shop online, I don’t have to camp out the night before in front of a store in the November frigid cold. I can shop when I choose on my computer, and I can shop in my pajamas while savoring a cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows. No one ever tackles me or tries to rip a bargain from my grasp while I’m shopping on my computer in my pajamas while savoring a cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows.

I’m a grandparent now. I take time out from being a Christmas Curmudgeon to enjoy going with my grandchildren and their parents to the children’s Christmas Eve mass, and I enjoy giving gifts to my grandchildren at Christmas and seeing their faces light up as mine once did at their ages. Those things are still meaningful and fun for me.

In addition to buying gifts for my grandchildren and close friends, I choose a tag each year from my church’s Christmas Giving Tree to provide a gift for an anonymous person, child or family in need. It rekindles my Christmas spirit, and it just plain makes me feel good to make a deserving person’s Christmas a bit merrier.

I no longer write a Christmas newsletter to send to everyone I know. [They’re probably grateful for that and who can blame them. Seriously.] I don’t mail out Christmas cards anymore. I send electronic Christmas greeting cards nowadays. They’re different, I like them, and my friends and family members say they are fun to receive. [The US Postal Service is undoubtedly unhappy about that. Well, they’re the ones who keep raising the price of stamps.]

Macho Guy used to be a Christmas decorating fanatic. Since he and I now spend our Christmases with our sons and their families in their homes, the Christmas decorations around here have been toned down considerably. We don’t hang wreaths. We don’t hang stockings. We don’t hang Christmas lights from the eaves. Our only decoration right now is a small artificial tree that we have on display in the living room. For years, we took that tree down from the attic, put it together, decorated it, and then reversed gears after Christmas. Finally, we decided to leave it decorated, cover it with a sheet, store it under the stairway to the lower level, and take it out each year in December. All we need to do is uncover it, put the Angel on top, and we’re done decorating. Spending Christmas with the kids and grandkids at their homes comes with an added bonus. Our grown children and their spouses do all the work. Macho Guy and I just show up with gifts and great big smiles on our faces and play with our grandchildren.

My Christmas season is fairly low key. However, I do make a few exceptions. For the past few years, I’ve been having fun on my computer counting down the days to Christmas with Jacquie Lawson’s animated advent calendar. Every December before Christmas, Macho Guy and I go with friends to quaint little Frankenmuth, Michigan for dinner, a bit of Christmas shopping in the quaint little shops, and to enjoy all the fabulous outdoor Christmas decorations and Christmas lights there. We attend several Christmas parties annually and make merry. We attend Christmas mass to hear again the Good News of Christ’s birth and take in the beauty of the almost-large-as-life manger on the altar. I watch my parents’ favorite uplifting Christmas movies every year without fail: It’s a Wonderful Life (1946), Miracle on 34^th Street (the 1947 classic version), and Scrooge (the 1951 British version of A Christmas Carol starring Alistair Sim—the best Scrooge ever). Viewing those films takes me back to the Christmases of my childhood. I confess that Scrooge is my favorite guilty Christmas pleasure. It never fails to bring me to tears.

Oh, dear. I just reread what I’ve written and I am amazed to realize that I am not the complete Christmas Curmudgeon I believed myself to be. It appears that I do not entirely dislike the Christmas season. I have found different ways to enjoy it in the present than the ways I enjoyed it in the past. I am not a curmudgeonly Scroogette after all—but you never heard that from me. I have a certain image to protect.

I was fond of the Christmas season as a young adult. It was still fun and festive. My friends and I would meet and go together to midnight mass. There was always a crowd at that mass, and inevitably we well-bred young folks gave up our seats to the elderly folks who arrived after we did. You would think that after the first time I had to stand for an hour during mass, I would learn to wear boots instead of pumps to the service. Oh, no. It was Christmas. It was a festive time. I dressed accordingly. After mass, my friends and I would trek through the neighborhood stopping off at one another’s homes where our parents had spreads of Christmas goodies for all of us. Between stops, we had half-hearted snowball fights—half-hearted because we all wore our good “Sunday go to Meeting Clothes.” At the last home of the night—early morning, to be accurate—we had a group breakfast, and then we scattered to our own homes to thaw out and then sleep in on Christmas morning. Fun and festive.

I wasn’t quite as fond of the Christmas season as a young parent. I wasn’t the one having all the fun anymore. I was the one providing all the fun and excitement. I was the one convincing a kid not to scream and cry on Santa’s lap so the photographer could take a decent picture. O joy. I had no idea how much work was involved. It looked so easy when my mother did it—the decorating, sending out the Christmas cards, the gift shopping, the grocery shopping, the cooking—so much cooking—and the baking (Did I mention that I cannot bake worth a darn?). And then there was the gift wrapping, the gift hiding where Firstborn and Little Brother couldn’t find them, being a kid wrangler for my two boys who couldn’t sit still during Christmas Eve service, and cleaning up the mess after the Christmas morning gift unwrapping frenzy. After a few years of this, I stopped looking forward to the Christmas season. Christmas equaled stress. I began to dread it.

I believe I know when I became a Christmas Curmudgeon. It was the last year we had a huge live tree—one of Firstborn’s friends dubbed it “The Christmas Sequoia.” On Christmas morning, I looked under the tree to see that Baby Jesus was missing from the manger. I alerted Macho Guy and the boys, and the hunt was on. We eventually found Baby Jesus behind a sofa in the family room—gnawed almost beyond recognition. The perpetrator of this desecration, our American Eskimo devil dog, had gone into hiding. We flushed him out and scolded him but the damage was irreversible. Of all the figurines under the tree, why did that wicked little monster choose to chew on Baby Jesus? I was appalled. It was sacrilege, no doubt about it. The boys, who adored the evil four-legged assassin, broke up laughing at what they felt was the absurdity of the situation. It was about then that I snapped. It was Baby Jesus’ birthday and instead of receiving a gift, he was chewed up by an unrepentant four-legged, white-furred spawn of Satan.

It struck me then that this incident was only one indication that the true spirit of Christmas was missing in action, replaced somewhere along the line by a secular white-bearded icon in a red suit who came down the chimney to become a symbol of crass commercialism. A holy day had become a holiday instead.

Until Christmas is once again the way it used to be, the way it should be, and the way it was meant to be, just call me Scroogette. Bah! Humbug!

To be continued next week.