Christmas of a Baby Boomer Boy
For a guy firmly committed to the destruction of the Santa Claus myth, my old man had a thing for Christmas. It was the one day we could be pretty sure would be nothing but fun. Except for going to church, which was mostly boring. But at Christmas, it wasn’t too bad since we got to hear parts of Handel’s Messiah, and everyone would say Merry Christmas and smile at each other, knowing that this — of all days — would be a happy one. Christmas was a true deliverance. Mostly of toys. And comfort and joy.
We didn’t wait until Christmas morning to open our presents. People who did that were just fooling their kids about how Santa came while they were sleeping and left stuff under their tree. No, we knew who Santa was. He was Mom and Dad. That’s who got the toys and hid them, and Mom would wrap them and we were sent to our rooms while the two of them brought them from secret hiding places and put them under the tree. We would sit in our rooms, talking in hushed tones about what we might be getting, until Mom or Dad would call, okay, come on down, and we’d rush down the stairs, clambering to be first to the landing, looking over the banister at the Christmas tree and the many presents arrayed around it.
Then one of us would be designated Santa (wink, wink) and would pick up a gift, one at a time, search for the name, happily proclaim who it was for, and would then pass it toward each of us in turn. We always opened our presents on Christmas Eve. That way we could go to a late mass on Christmas Day or Midnight Mass the night before. Either way Dad got to sleep in.
I remember my brother Jimmy and me getting Lincoln Logs, World War II army sets, Civil War army sets, Erector sets, chemistry sets, model cars, toy trucks, fabricated-tin gas stations with working car lifts, electric race-car sets, learn-electricity sets, toy cowboy guns and holsters, cap guns, World War II toy guns, a bike would have to share. My sisters got dolls, doll houses, Easy-Bake Ovens, other toy appliances, similar wife-intraining kits, paint sets, and books. You know, girl stuff. Over time, the gifts I got became books and Beatles records and clothes that I wouldn’t be caught dead in but had to wear anyway yet managed to survive the humiliation that came with showing up at school in them.
Still, it was Christmas, and we were a family with presents and weren’t starving or poor like people in Asia, where we sent our UNICEF boxes. I don’t remember what Dad got for Christmas. I remember Mom always got something. Jimmy would give her a pot holder or napkin set or something he could scare up with a couple of bucks. And Mom would say, how lovely. Dad got to drink, but the drinking that day didn’t get in the way of the joy of Christmas. He got to smile. Sometimes he would laugh.
We always had a turkey dinner with stuffing and cranberry sauce and black and green olives and broccoli with Hollandaise sauce and muffins, and for dessert there was pumpkin or pecan pie. Your choice. As we got older, we were allowed to have a glass of white wine with dinner and coffee with our pie. Jimmy always ate too much and would moan about it and loosen his pants and everyone would laugh.
Dad would fall asleep on the couch watching a football game, my mom and older sisters did the dishes, and we little ones played with our toys and wished every day was Christmas day. Late in life, I learned that for some of these Christmases, Santa wasn’t Mom and Dad. Santa was our older sisters. Sisters who had jobs and money to spend to see that their younger selves might see the Christmas they had known. Or wanted. When there are seven of you, it’s hard to tell who is grown and who has gone and who just can’t go back. I learned much too late how much they loved us. And how much all of us loved each other.
