No dashing through the snow on a one cylinder Vespa this year so I pulled an image from last winter of one of the more picturesque winter scenes.  Quiet snowfalls are just one of the many images and ideas in my head surrounding the holiday season.  Remembering Christmas is part bittersweet exercise and part challenge to the soul to engage the world with a bright heart and wide smile.

Oh, and by the way, Merry Christmas to all!

The magic felt as a kid remains elusive.  Perhaps it doesn’t exist as my adult mind has become too twisted with mature thought, rational behavior, and a mechanistic approach to living that stifles possibilities for magical thinking.

During the run up to Christmas I’ve witnessed much energy and resources invested in the season — decorations, parties and food.  Enjoyable and fun, but not successful in stirring the excitement of my child fantasy of Christmas.

I remember when it happened.  Nine years old, late in the evening after the traditional Christmas eve party followed by a candlelight church service at midnight complete with carols and shimmering desire for Christmas morning.  In a sudden, tearful recognition at bed time I knew it was gone.  No thrill in my stomach or imaginings of Santa Claus.  I was just gone.  My father came to say goodnight and listened to my sadness and told me the feeling would return again when I had kids.

He had that ability to make me feel ok — about Christmas, problems at school, or cutting my thumb in half with my Cub Scout knife.  I wish he was here now, to help me remember Christmas.

Colored lights and evergreen trees help make the spirits bright.  Just like the song.  Snow would be a plus but I’m not at all bothered by the snow free weather.  Aside from movies, television and a wealth of Christmas card imagery I’m not certain I have any memories directly connected to the white stuff.  Instead I remember people, and parties.  There are a couple years of adolescent bar-keeping at our Christmas party at the wet bar we had in our family room where I carefully made mixed drinks for people.

On Christmas eve our kids were here and we talked a bit about our favorite gifts over the years.  And the least favorite.  Thinking about those questions I realize the brightest memories and feelings have little to do with presents.  Like the time my dad had the bad chili.

I was maybe twelve when my dad was sick on Christmas day from eating chili, presumably it was too spicy and hot.  When you’re twelve years old and focused on the holiday the health issues of your parents don’t seem too important, especially when it’s an intolerance for spicy food.

Years later I got the real Christmas chili story and it has become indelible in how I see my family and Christmas.  Here’s the short story:

Late on Christmas eve dad goes to the neighbor’s house to help him put together some toy for his kid.  Alcohol is involved.  After finishing the toy he returns home and retrieves a 110 pound weight set in a box from the trunk of the car.  Struggling with the box as he makes his way up the stairs to the kitchen door our overly excited dog jumps on him and he ends up at the bottom of the steps with three broken ribs.

My mother, hearing the commotion, descends the stairs when my father, drunk, looks up into her eyes and say, “An angel!”.  Her response, “Go to hell!”. He spent the next day in bed. The chili story sprang to life but I never learned who hatched the idea.  

At the time I slept through this and only knew dad had eaten some bad chili.  Now I have a more striking picture of Christmas with my parents.  And until his death I had never seen my father drunk.  A case of Rolling Rock would last a year.

These are the stories of Christmas that stand out but again, have not helped me find the magic I once held as a kid.  Maybe when a new grandchild appears the magic will return.  I want to be a kid again at Christmas…

I had a brief thrill this evening when I was handed six big Hershey bars.  I still love a Hershey bar, the memory of them from another century to the way they taste now.

I hope each of you has had a fine holiday.  For those of you who still feel the magic, maybe you’ll share how that happens. In the meantime I can report that the Vespa is back together, the heated grips working and hot, the Tucano Urbano mitts in place, and a short test ride accomplished on Christmas day.

Happy holidays!