Christmas Eve, 2010

I love Christmas Eve.  Love it better than Christmas.  There is something about it that is just so magical - a perfect combination of hope, anticipation, reverence.  As a child I remember keenly the experience of walking out of midnight services at Redford United Methodist, in Old Redford, and looking up into a starlit winter's sky wondering which of those stars was the star.

My Christmases as a child were almost representative of living in two families.  For a large part of my early childhood, there was just me and my older brothers. The three of us, oldest to youngest, are separated by less than four years.  The Christmases from my young childhood are in my mind very old fashioned. BB Guns, electric tabletop football games, litebright - there was never anything electronic.  We got GI Joes - the real ones with scars, fully rendered combat equipment, and fuzzy hair.  Think pre "Kung-Fu grip" GI Joe.  Those were the days when there might be a football under the tree or a new ball glove.

Our family traditions included the Winter Carnival at Cobo Hall in Detroit and then an entire day of Christmas shopping at JL Hudson's flagship store in downtown Detroit.  How I loved that store with its uniformed elevator operators and Santa's Castle on the top floor.  It was the kind of magic you only see in the movies these days it seems.

I remember peering out the front, second story windows of that old craftsman on Cooley and thinking the red light from each passing airplane was Rudolph and that we had to quick get into bed and fall asleep because we wouldn't want Santa to come and find us awake.  My brothers would conk me on the head and remind me that it was an airplane.  Secretly I knew they were wrong, because who would be on an airplane on Christmas Eve?  Christmas Eve was for family, and church, and singing the songs that made me feel as if I could fly.  People did not travel on Christmas Eve, I knew at least that much in my 6 year old brain. But I kept that fact to myself - determined to be the first one asleep and thus guarantee Santa would keep on the "nice" list.

There is a picture somewhere of the three of us from that night, probably just like there is somewhere in your home of you and perhaps your siblings, all jammed into one bed sleeping like a litter of puppies waiting for the blessings of a Christmas morning.  Though I haven't actually held that picture in a long long time, I can see it today as if it was yesterday that it was snapped. Those days are long ago in my memory - but I am grateful to have lived them.

As the three of us grew older, there eventually came a sister - nine years younger than me (the youngest boy) - and with her the opportunity to live Christmas Eve once again propelled by the zeal of a young child.  One memory in particular stands out of a time we all turned out our pockets on Christmas Eve to see, could we afford one more gift from my younger sibling. A bike she coveted was on sale at the local toy store (which was open until midnight on Christmas Eve).  Turns out we had just enough to buy it. My older brother David, home on break from MSU and an expert at puzzles, and me, home from break at CMU and an expert at holding the light, stayed up all night putting it together for her.

The bike assembled and certified as safe by David, we tumbled into bed around 5:00 am and, sharing the front room of my parents' home in Farmington Hills, had just wished each other a hushed "Merry Christmas," when my sister - probably around age 9 or 10, appeared at the door screeching her own "Merry Christmas!" She tore off down the stairs in search of treasure and actually rode that darned bike all over the lower level of my parents' home. Crashed it right at the bottom of the stairs and woke up the entire house.  For a long time I remembered it as my favorite Christmas Eve ever.

Each Christmas Eve I am also reminded of the troops serving in far away places.  My oldest brother, Pat, entered the Air Force when I was just 15.  His absence that first Christmas was the first time in my life my family was not together for Christmas Eve.  Much like, when I was younger, I thought that no one in their right mind would fly on Christmas Eve, so too did I think that all families were always together on that night.  When my mother told me that "no, Patrick won't be coming home for Christmas" I couldn't understand it. It did not feel like Christmas without all of us there together. There isn't a Christmas Eve that goes by that I don't think of him off serving in California or Korea on the many Christmas Eves when he was gone.

My wife and I were married just short of Christmas almost 20 years ago and we honeymooned in Virginia over the holiday.  I remember that the town, Williamsburg, was absolutely brilliant in its Christmas splendor.  On Christmas Eve we looked in the yellow pages to find a Methodist Church (yes, the actual yellow pages - this was before the era of the Internet or smartphones) and attended a gorgeous candle-lit ceremony in a 200 year old church.  The songs were all the good ones and the excitement of being newly married also made for a memorable Christmas Eve.

Now-a-days I am a dad myself.  I have two little ones; two great little ones, who share their Christmas dreams with me.  Their excitement is quite possibly visible from space or maybe registering on any of a number of Richter scales in the greater Midwest.  But it is an excellent excitement.  A time to not just believe in the magic, but to paint yourself with it.  Revel in it.

Where before we used advent calendars to count the days, now we have "an app for that" on my iPod Touch.  Though the medium is different, the experience is the same - the kids and I huddle up and one or the other of them will touch the sparkly Santa on the glistening screen to learn how many more "sleeps til Christmas."  It's not my normal, but it is theirs and I keep telling myself they will remember these days, always.

What is normal for me is the Christmas Eve ceremony at church.  We will, literally, travel over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house for an annual appearance at the church where my wife has been a lifelong member; where her mom was the church secretary; where we were married 20 Christmases ago.  And we will steal our way into the balcony with our rambunctious children, and sing the songs in that great vaulted sanctuary.

That is perhaps my most favorite Christmas Eve tradition - the gathering of the faithful; that very human act of assembling the community of faith to raise their voices and sing songs of hope, and love.  Redemption, and faith.  Sitting where we sit in the balcony with the voices swelling beneath us; they lift us up as if we are topside on a ship being lifted by a swelling sea of faith.  I am not much of a singer - so I am careful to watch my voice and tone.  What moves me most is listening to the voices of all the other people fill the church.

Each of them traveling their own path in life, every one of them unique in their hopes, fears, burdens and blessings.  They all come to that place to propel their love, hope, and faith by their voices. They sing the ancient songs that say "we are here, we matter, and we are grateful."

For me, every Christmas Eve, no matter my stage of life, has been marked by those songs - "Oh Come All Ye Faithful," "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing," "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem," and, of course, "Silent Night."

It's Christmas Eve.  So first let me wish you and yours the same Christmas Wish I have made for all of my family and friends each Christmas for the last 20 years - that you are well, and warm, and loved. And that this next year is the one where, for the good of the world's children, we find peace in our time. Thanks for coming by my blog today.  No matter where you are, I hope you are in the company of your fine family; that everyone sets aside their worries, hurts, past offenses and takes a moment to savor the precious gifts of faith, hope, love and community that bind a family together.  This Christmas Eve, my wish is that you find your spirits raised upward on the notion that this magical time is a great gift.

With love and gratitude, my thoughts are with you all; my friends and family, this Christmas Eve.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Having "the talk" when Santa's fate hangs in the balance...

When I was in the 3rd grade, much of the discussion among my school buddies at Christmas time was on whether or not each of us still believed in Santa Claus.  For me, the experience was heart wrenching.

“Of course Santa exists,” I remember thinking.  I even recall there was at least one fist fight with my bitterest third grade rival, Kerry Simmerson.  One day walking home from school I had heard enough about how Santa did not exist and anger grew to pushing, pushing grew to shoving, and shoving grew to punches being thrown. I did not win the fight; my oldest brother did when he jumped in and laid waste to Kerry Simmerson – but that is another story.

This story is about how I had to go home and tell my mom I got into a fight over whether or not Santa Claus existed.  I was petrified to do so because as a child in my mother's home, and in fact it is true to this very day for children and grandchildren alike, one did not question the existence of Santa.  So to even admit that I had been engaged in fisticuffs over the issue was to admit that people in my peer group were questioning.

I remember my mom sitting in the kitchen in our old Sears Craftsman in Detroit, and listening while I re-enacted the entire argument and subsequent fight.  I was crying when I told her I just couldn’t believe anyone didn’t believe.

Now, my mom was a school teacher.  And as an adult looking backward, it is evident to me that she was infinitely more comfortable with the issues important to little kids than I ever will be.  I will admit at times when I was growing up we had our issues, but from my perspective, as a 46 year old father of two myself, she was a friggin genius most of the time.

So she took in my tale and then gave me a hug and a kiss and told me “Denny, don’t worry about it if they don’t believe.  That’s their choice and you can’t ever change that – but what really matters is what you believe.  That’s what we call ‘faith.’  Do you believe Santa exists?"

I recall that my reply must have sounded like something from a cartoon “I do believe ma!  I do I do I DO believe!”  She gave me another hug and a kiss and told me not to worry about it then – that it was the beginning of Christmas break and we would all feel better once Christmas got here.

Important to this story is that in the front room of our home, there was a modest fireplace surrounded in red-brick and adorned with a wooden mantle.  We used the fireplace regularly and it was perpetually filled with ash and soot as a result.  To this day, I cannot look at a real fireplace with red bricks and not recall the tale I am about to share with you now.

Christmas morning 1972 arrived and I can remember tearing down the stairs with my brothers to take in the Christmas Day haul.  The tree, in my memory, was magnificent and surrounded by a veritable sea of festive packages.  In my home the packages from family were always wrapped expertly and the gifts from Santa were always presented right where Santa left them, unwrapped - ready to be enjoyed.  If you were especially good, there might also be extra gifts under the tree from the "fairies and elves" at the North Pole.

My eyes took all this in and, as I sorted packages looking to start my pile, I noticed winding through the mountain of toys; around the Hands-Up Harry and electric table top football game, a series of sooty boot-prints.  They began at the fireplace and wound their way around the entire room – first to the stockings and then around the tree and then completed their circuit back into the fireplace.

Seeing them was the first “Stop the Presses!” moment of my life.

“AAAA-HAAAAA!” I shouted to my brothers who, apparently oblivious to the tracks, circled the tree like leaves in a whirlwind.  My older brothers, then 10 and 12, said not a word to me about the footprints.  They are good brothers - always have been.

But there before me was all the proof I needed for rotten old Kerry Simmerson.  I begged and begged and begged for my mother to snap a few photos of the boot prints so I could take them to school with me after the start of the New Year and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Santa came to good little boys.

My mom relented and pulled out the family “Polaroid Swinger” and snapped two pictures of the telltale boot prints from different angles while my father made quite a show of saying he was going to catch that elfish devil next year for making such a mess out of our living room.

I counted those days remaining until I could go to school as among my most satisfying ever.  Kerry would have to eat an entire basket of crow once he saw the pictures, I thought.  I am sure I bored my family to tears with the many tales played out in my mind of what I would say and where exactly I would make my presentation of exhibits A and B once school got back in session.

The night before we returned to school, I put the two pictures on the rack by my coat, right where I wouldn’t forget them.  Kerry had always been my bully and at long last I was going to have some justice.  Santa did exist and I had all the proof I needed right in my pocket. Tomorrow, I thought, would be a day of reckoning for the bully, Kerry Simmerson. I went to bed that night dreaming victory dreams of the coming confrontation. 

What I did not count on in the many times I played this scene out, was that in the rush to get three boys out the door for school before she herself departed work, my mom would have forgotten to include my “Zapruder pics” in with my books and sack lunch.  So I was surprised when I got to school and realized the pictures were still at home.

"No problem,” I thought as I sorted through my things, “Tomorrow, then.”

At home that afternoon, I searched and searched and searched for the pictures but couldn’t find them anywhere.  I am sure I said horrible things to our babysitter because I remember she helped earnestly in the search but couldn’t find them either. I remember waiting, and crying, in the kitchen for my mom to come home from school.

“The pictures are gone!” I cried.  “Now I’ll never get to show him my proof!”

I was devastated.

My mother gave me a hug and said that “we have to have a talk about those pictures…”

My heart exploded into my chest. This was it, this was where she dropped the big one about Santa – she was going to tell me that there was no Santa and I have been acting like an idiot for the better part of two weeks.

She hugged me and we walked together into the front room of that sturdy old Craftsman.  There we sat down and she looked right into my face and said:

“Denny, what you believe is what you believe.  It’s why we call it “having faith.”  If other kids don’t believe then that is up to them; all that really matters to you is that you believe, ok?”

I am sure I looked to her like a dog looks to us when he hears a high pitched sound.  I felt like I was left hanging – so was there or wasn’t there a Santa?  Seeing this on my face, and being as good with kids as she was, she knew I needed more than that.  It was then that she told me the absolute truth about Christmas on Cooley in Old Redford in 1972.

“Denny,” she said looking me right in the face, “Santa sent elves, two of them, and a magic talking squirrel who's been keeping an eye on you, he's called the Telling Squirrel, to take back those pictures.  You see, faith is very important to Santa, and he asked me to tell you that if you truly believe, you won’t ever need a simple picture to convince you that love, magic, and Santa exist.  He said that people would only say you faked that picture anyhow.  And he also said to say he loves you, and that you are a very good little boy."

The essential truths I learned that day, shared with me in the Christmas of my third grade year, I bear with me still. They are part of the ready tools that aid me in my journey through life as a child of wonderful parents and a parent to wonderful children. Santa, and love, and magic most certainly exist, if only you have a little faith.

So thanks for stopping by my blog today and sharing this story.  I hope wherever you find yourself today, you are in hugging distance of those who love you, who lift you up, and who fulfill the very best parts of the person you are destined to be.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!

In my family, and in the home in which I was raised, Santa was a vibrant part of the Christmas tradition.  In fact, this year, at 46 years old, I can honestly say that, busy as we all were Thanksgiving morning, I found myself stopping, almost breathless, at the end of the televised Macy's parade, waiting for Santa to make his appearance.  It's just part of my DNA.  I was truly happy to see him :-) So having confessed that, it should come as no surprise that at this time of year I often find myself sharing the story of Virginia O'Hanlon and her timeless question, "does Santa exist?"  It is a personal indulgence for me.  I love the writing, and the sentiment, of this American classic.  Whether Santa is or isn't part of your holiday tradition, I am nonetheless happy to share this story with you.  If nothing else, it makes me long for a time when people actually talked the way Church does in his response to O'Hanlon's letter - such elegance, such elan. Of course times are different now.  We have digital applications for almost anything and young, beautiful Virginia could have googled her answer in about 1/100th the time it took to compose her famous letter, but then we would have never known of Francis Church's elegant and graceful and inspiring reply to that innocent 8 year old from New York. It was in 1897 that Virginia O'Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York's Sun inquiring if there was indeed a Santa Claus. The quick, inspired, response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1897. History tells us it was the work of veteran newsman Francis Church and in the 113 years since it first appeared, it has become history's most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearing in part or whole in dozens of languages in books, movies, and other editorials, and on posters and stamps.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.  "Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.  "Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' "Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus? VIRGINIA O'HANLON. "115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus?! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. *** I love that ending phrase - "...to make glad the heart of childhood."  Would that we all look within ourselves and find that simple motivation, the world would indeed be a better place. Today, this December 1st, as you plow your way through all of the hustle and bustle and the collateral worry and hopes of the season, I hope you find yourself warmed within and called to work hard at making glad the heart of childhood.  There can be no better calling among us to take these kids and dare them to be glad. Inspire them to be merry, indulge them in their childish capacities, love them without question and you might find you change the world. So thanks for stopping by my blog today and for your continued suppport. Merry Christmas! Dennis smalltowndad@hotmail.com