Snow Globes

 Living in the moment seems the best fit for me, because my memories seem to be more comprised of moments than events. Though there are some things I recall in toto, there are far more vignettes that comprise my recollections. Maybe I don’t have the focus or the energy to commit most things to memory. Maybe I simply do not have the bandwidth for it. Whatever the reason, my life separates into moments where some remain with me while others join the dinosaurs or the socks that disappear from the dryer. Taking time to reminisce on Christmases throughout my life, I do not have full memories in the round, but moments strewn along the path of my life. Smooth and shiny as river rocks – and I’m good with that.

 As a child, my paternal grandmother (Nanny) would come down from mythical Ridgefield, Connecticut to visit us. In my youngest of times, she arrived by train. I could not tell you if the station we picked her up from was in Columbia or Orangeburg or Branchville or some other town. I don’t remember if the station platform was wood or cement. I don’t even remember the mighty locomotive or Nanny disembarking from a passenger car. What sticks in my mind is the image of the rails disappearing in the distance where the parallel lines merged (obviously Connecticut). The Christmas gift of this vision was my first glimpse of infinity. Not bad.

 Christmas with Nanny was filled with recollections of her taking her grandchildren to Eckerd’s Drug Store at the Orangeburg Mall for lunch at their lunch counter where every year, the waitresses were excited to see her.  Of course, there also are the moments that exist within me of Nanny’s bad driving (the stuff of legends), of her lovingly saying to me in Arabic Ya Habibi, and her occasional expression of amazement with her wrinkled hand pressed to her forehead as she would moan “Sheesh ohboy!” The thing I remember most from these many Christmas visits was joining my siblings around the tree one Christmas morning with Nanny telling us that a noise had awakened her in the middle of the night. She got up to check on the cause of the sound to find Santa with his back to her putting presents under the tree. I can picture her in her flannel nightgown quietly scurrying back to her bed, because magic is a fragile thing.

Most of the other Christmases of my childhood come as images of me crawling stealthily beneath the tree and opening a seam or corner of gift wrap on my presents to see what I would be receiving. This never spoiled my Christmas morning. It simply changed the excitement of the unknown to the excitement of expectation. The joy of finally stripping the wrapping paper from a football helmet or Coleco hockey game that I couldn’t wait to play with. I am not ashamed to note that this excitement did not extend to the packages bearing shirts and sweaters.

 Beyond that my snippets of South Carolina Christmases are mostly glimpses of a tree, an ornament, a smile. One thing that was universal to every Christmas in the Handal household was my mom’s dogged efforts to ensure she spent the same amount on each child for the under-the-tree presents, and carefully planning for the same number of knick-knacks for each child’s stockings. This latter habit brought to me my biggest Christmas smile one year when I was back from Clemson for the holidays. As was the tradition, when we kids got up Christmas morning our stockings were the first thing we went for. Never knowing what to expect. This time when I emptied out the lumpy red velvet boot, out popped a magazine, some baseball cards, maybe a yo-yo, and a can of tuna. Grinning I turned to mom as she explained with more than a little undeserved embarrassment that she had miscounted my share of stocking stuffers and needed to add one more item to even things out.

 As an adult, the memory of any Christmas day is murky at best. This surprises me because I would think that especially the addition of Jean-Marie and the kids to my life would place most Christmases complete in my heart. But it is the spirit of the day that persists, the happiness, the chaos, the grazing on cookies and leftovers from the Christmas dinner. The larger memories for me with my wife and children are the whole of the season where I see Christmas parties that filled the house, and I am once again scouring the city with Jean-Marie to find those things we think the kids will love, driving around to see all the neighborhood Christmas displays that delighted us so, and the taking of turns on the phone talking to in-laws and out-laws, siblings and friends.

It is all of these moments of Christmas that scatter before me each year. They are not pieces that when rearranged complete a puzzle. They are snow globes, one scene in each. And as I pick up ones at random, I give each a shake, place them before the light and see what arises as the white flakes settle and the water clears. I get new snow globes every year. I have quite a wonderful collection.

 

Merry Christmas

Borrowing Against Christmas

Just eight days until Christmas, and at 56, I can still feel the childhood echoes of excitement that I felt in anticipation of toys, of good food and treats, and of the smiles of exhausted parents who (unbeknownst to me at the time) had been up half the night putting toys together. The phrase “some assembly required” would always raise a rueful chuckle in Dad – and you did not want to get him started on the Coleco brand toys!

I never really had to assemble anything for my kids, thank the gods. Our greatest worry was to spend the same amount on each of them every Christmas. One thing I have never gotten used to though has been the pragmatic approach to gifts that my family has taken over the years.

As a perfect example, this year our grandson needed tires on his car and was trying to figure out how to afford them. He is a sophomore at Colorado State University (not actually germane to this story, but I like to brag), and has been taught well by his mom to budget effectively (another bragging opportunity). He has also always been meticulous about any sort of shopping from the time that he was little. He was never the kind of child to ask for everything in the world at Christmas-time. Instead he seemed to be weighing the pros and cons and cost of each toy under consideration. He could spend hours on the Target toy catalog and then hand it back to his Gigi and Bumpa with only two or three things circled. This behavior was not limited to special occasions either. It was torture to stand with him at the Chuckie Cheese’s counter selecting what combination of items would best suit him in exchange for the tickets he had earned playing countless games.

When Russell told us that he needed tires on his car, his Gigi and I did not hesitate to offer to buy a set for him. We were happy to do this because it would keep him safer, it would save him money, and it would likely save our daughter money. It was a win, win, win. Russell first offered to pay us back, which we turned down. Then he offered to pay half, and again we turned him down. He finally insisted on this being his Christmas present from us, and we relented.

Another example of this kind of behavior can be seen in my wife. Every year we try to make it up to Denver to a pet friendly hotel (can’t leave Mabel behind) and treat ourselves to a nice weekend during the Christmas season. This year was no different, and included a wonderful night at the Monaco, a meal not to be beat at Panzano’s (worth saving your pennies for!), and some fun shopping about town on Sunday. As we planned all this, my wife said to me, “This is our Christmas present to each other this year, right?” Yeesh!

I am uncomfortable with this because I am of the mind that if there is a need and we can afford it, we should just make the purchase without having my wife, or children, or grandchildren “borrow” against Christmas or a birthday or whatever occasion. Understand that my family is so practical that they may borrow months in advance of the holiday at times!

It’s not that I prefer to buy frivolous gifts, I often surprise them with practical gifts like a gift card or stationary. It’s not that I think they are being overly self-sacrificing (though they are incredibly considerate). It’s not that I am being impractical in terms of spending, it's just that they are being more practical than I. I guess my objection originates from wanting to surprise them. I want to have a choice of what I can get for them. There is joy for them in anticipation and unwrapping.

My wife and children are not as bothered by this as I. I know the kids have an unmatched record for being on Santa’s nice list (except perhaps for some high school years and even then, they weren’t too naughty), and that my wife and grandchildren are beyond reproach. So, I think they should all have at least something they want and not just something they need. Just some trinket at least that lets them know I have given them thought and might actually know them pretty well.

As selfish as it sounds, borrowing against Christmas doesn’t let me be Santa. Why can’t I be Santa? My beard is white, my eyes twinkle, I wear reading glasses, and I have the belly for it. I have also walked on a rooftop on Christmas Eve (once for my grandson Russell). And I am willing to become conversant with reindeer. Though I don’t know how to get around the neighborhood covenants against caribou.  It does make me wonder however, does pouting about not being able to be Santa make me a Grinch?

To my friends and family around the world:

Merry Christmas

Feliz Navidad

عيدميلادمجيد

کریسمس مبارک

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Christmas stirs up memories in most people, and I am no different.  I have memories of all kinds from attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve to crawling beneath the tree to unwrap my gifts early to traditions built around my children and grandchildren.  This year I am thinking of Santa (which is only fair since he spends so much time thinking of us).

            When I speak of Santa, I am not talking about my father dressing up in costume for so many Christmases.  By the way, he wore the outfit even after we grew to adulthood, although by then he just wore the red pants and the cap.  What I am talking of is falling into my memories of the jolly old elf himself.

            I recall two very early memories of Santa Claus.  The oldest of which took place when the family lived on St. Andrews Drive in Orangeburg.  Our grandmother, Nanny (Dad’s mom), would come and join us from Connecticut most Christmases and in those days she would come by train which made her visits more magical.  She would come to town and take us kids to the cafeteria at Eckard’s Drug at the Orangeburg Mall where I would always get a chili dog and the waitress would always remember our Nanny.  Nanny would take us other places as well, and anywhere she drove was an adventure because she was not a good driver…she scared us.  Anyway, this one Christmas, I remember charging out Christmas morning to take inventory of what Santa had brought.  I don’t remember what it was that year, but what sticks with me the most was Nanny telling us, “I heard a noise in the middle of the night, and when I got out of bed to look I saw Santa and I rushed right back to bed!”  The image that formed in my mind was of Nanny peering around a corner and spying Santa from behind as he bent over his pack.  That goes down as the first and most substantial proof I needed that Santa truly existed.

            Later after the family outgrew the St. Andrew’s house and had moved to Mason Drive, my older brother Chris and I shared a room with a nightstand and AM radio separating our beds.  On Christmas Eve, we would go excitedly to bed and celebrate what became a ritual for us – the listening to the Santa radar tracking from the mysterious Cheyenne Mountain in some far off land called Colorado.  We would track him most often across Canada and Yankee climes (he must have been saving his visit to the South for later – the best for last!) before falling asleep to muster ourselves for an early morning assault on our parents and presents.  This memory is lasting not only because I live in Colorado Springs at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain now, but because if the United States Air Force said Santa existed, that was good enough for me.

            Time passes so quickly (as only time can), and I grew up.  I drew the mantle of Santa onto myself.  Santa is a busy elf, and I think it is our jobs as adults and parents to help him out so that he can spend his efforts helping those around the world that cannot as easily help themselves.  I married Jean-Marie, a beautiful woman with three incredible children, and we joined forces as Santa for them.  We filled stockings, and placed gifts out with tags reading “from Santa” each Christmas.  Doing our jobs as Santa helpers.  Though a joy, it is not really the memory I wished to share here.  The memory that is currently making me smile is after our oldest child at 21 years of age gave birth to our grandson Russell.  To provide space and security for them, Jean-Marie and I turned the detached garage into a cottage that she moved into at Christmas time two months before Russell was born.  It was in that cottage when Russell was almost three years old, that Haley asked me to do something special for her.  So after dark on Christmas Eve after Russell had been put in his bed, she called over to the house and told me it was time.  I grabbed a ladder, walked across the back yard, and set it up against her cottage. Quietly as I could, I climbed up on the roof, then stomped around for a bit so that Russell could have his magic moment with Santa.

            The last memory I am thinking of happened seven years after that last memory on a December afternoon when I was driving around with Russell.  We had the 850 KOA Sports Zoo on the radio and one of the hosts, Dave Logan, began some kind of rant.  Suddenly he made an inadvertent slip and said something to the effect that to think such-n-such was like still believing in Santa Claus.  There was a hasty commercial break and when they returned, the hosts Susie and Dave were trying to smooth it over any way they could.  I was just sitting there, stunned and silent behind the steering wheel.  At almost ten years of age, Russell was at the cusp where he might still believe and then again he might not.  It is not a conversation you hold with a child, so I didn’t know what to say or do.  So I did one of the things I do best - panicked.  I sat there sweating, trying unsuccessfully to map out what to say when Russell turned to me, placed a hand on my arm and said, “It’s alright, Bumpa.  I already know about Santa.”  My heart melted, because Russell didn’t know it then, but he was starting his path to take up Santa’s mantle with that act of kindness toward his grandfather.  And you know what?  For the second Christmas Eve in a row, Russell (now 17) will be joining his step-dad Mike on the Santa Hotline - Santa continues to be payed forward.