Christmas is a Feeling…and I’ve lost it

Little L would lie in bed and wait for it:  that magical feeling that started right after Santa Claus finally brought up the rear of the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. 

The anticipation of things to come was like a drug to Little L.  She loved the rehearsals for the Christmas play at school and the familiarity of Christmas carols sung at Sunday Mass amid gigantic potted poinsettias and aromatic pine boughs festooning the altars.  Her eyes would grow wide in front of the automated window scenes at Marshall Field in Chicago’s bustling Loop.  She pretended to believe in the poor man in the red velvet suit who endured children peeing on his lap and pulling his fake beard, just so she could get the gift he would pull out of his huge pack, lying beside his throne.

Little L’s family didn’t do any decorating at all until the Big Night.  My sister, our cousins and I believed the floor-to-ceiling silver-painted pine tree was somehow put there by Santa, before he went about the task of arranging the unwrapped toys in a way that told a story, while at the same time putting each child’s presents in easy-to-find groups. 

Little L loved to wake up on Christmas morning – make that the wee, wee hours of the morning, while it was still night dark – and see the blue glow that silver tree emitted from its monochromatic lighting scheme.  The silver tinsels, meticulously placed one-strand-by-one, reflected the blue lights and enhanced the glow. Knowing she was not allowed to get up until the sun was about to rise, Little L would lie there and let the “feeling” of that glow wash over her while she fought the urge to wake her sleeping little sister in the twin bed beside her.

Christmas was a three to four week feast for all her senses.  The sights of blinking lights and precious nativity scenes; the smells of Christmas cookies mixed with the nauseous stench of diesel fuel that lessened to joy of the trip to the Loop; and the sounds of music from the radio or from the sound tracks of televised Christmas specials and classic movies converged to create a very excited little girl.

Even after I became Teen L, long eschewing the magical components of the season, that glow of tree lights worked on me every time.  Somehow that glow, which only worked on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, had the power to elevate even my adolescent moods, although I did have to be awakened by this time, having been out the night before.

Parenthood changed everything.  Mommy L had to create the magic for her tiny, excitable boy.  Year after year, through tight budgets and single parenthood, through work schedules and relentless sinus infections, Mommy L’s job was not to enjoy the run-up to Christmas, but to “make” Christmas. The joy she experienced at the sight of her little son jumping up and down in his footie pajamas with glee was her sensory reward.

Today I am Senior L.  Without grandchildren yet to spoil and help create the magic for, I find myself disinterested in the Miracle on 34th Street, weary of the sound of Jimmy Stewart’s voice and numb, even, to my favorite Christmas songs.  It all feels so artificial, so borderline dishonest.  While I do believe The Reason for the Season actually lived and walked among us more than 2000 years ago, I no longer believe he was anything more than a charismatic leader with superior staying power.  Celebrating his birth, for me, is similar to celebrating the birth of any other person of historical significance. 

When I watch as my sister and her son create the magic for his 9 and 11 year olds, I notice the changes from one year to the next.  I doubt they believe some portly dude flies in at night, parks his inexplicably airborne reindeer on their roof, and somehow squishes his ample girth and a jam-packed sack of presents into modern-day chimney flues.  I doubt they understand that without their generous and doting grandmother, their Christmas hauls would be vastly diminished. 

And yet, when they have children, they will repeat the same seemingly meaningless (to me, not to all of you, I’m sure) cycle.  And their grandparents will sit quietly, nibbling on pfeffernüsse, waiting for it all to be over, once again.

I understand the concept of Bah, Humbug better each year that passes by.