Lost Christmas

I think it was easier to get excited about Christmas as a kid. Actually, it was probably easier to get excited about almost anything as a kid. We have all lived different lives and have become the people we are due to different experiences, but I think it’s fair to say most of us tend to lose a lot of the hopeful innocence and potential for unabashed enthusiasm that defines so much of childhood as we get older. 

Many of my childhood Christmases were a lot alike. Christmas Eve was almost as much of a holiday on its own, defined by the anticipation. It wasn’t just the presents, or the big meal, or the family-friendly reverence of the Nativity play or the solemnity of Midnight Mass. It was the launch of a multi-day event that always culminated in being surrounded by cousins and aunts and uncles. Our family went to mass on Christmas Eve every year I can remember. We’d attend the early evening service when my sisters and I were still in elementary school. Each year without fail, our dad would be backing the car out of the garage and our mom would have a moment of panic when she realized she had forgotten her gloves, giving her reason to quickly run back inside while the rest of us waited in the car. And each year that happened, it turned out that Santa had come and gone while we were gone; I guess living so far North made our house one of the earlier stops on his route.

Each year our extended family would come together for Christmas at our grandmother’s house in Superior, Wisconsin. Sometimes we’d leave late on Christmas Eve, and sometimes we’d leave late Christmas morning. On Christmas Eve we’d drive through a starry darkness only broken by passing cars or bursts of color from the holiday lights decorating occasional farm houses. The radio was tuned to an AM station with Christmas Eve programming featuring songs, stories, corny jokes, and Santa Claus updates. If it was one of the years we’d wait to leave until late Christmas morning, we usually had glowing sunshine reflecting off the snow, and the inside of the car would get so warm we’d take off our jackets even if it was below zero outside of the car. Arriving at our grandmother's house, whether late at night or in the middle of the day, promised two days of nonstop family, music, food, card games, snow football and shenanigans, all taking place in an ancient house so filled with people that every window was perpetually fogged over for the entire visit. One of the best parts of it for me was running out of energy and getting to sleep in a chilly second-floor bedroom covered with time-worn blankets and pillows, with a streetlight just outside the window.

New traditions evolved as time passed. Midnight Mass became the standard as we grew older, and Christmas Eve at church was more centered around our parents being in the choir, although sometimes my sisters and I would be involved in the music service in different ways as well. There wasn’t much use for drummers during Midnight Mass, so I didn’t have many chances to be involved unless they went full orchestral. Instead I usually had some quiet time to sit in the semi-dark as the church filled up around me, listening to the choir practice and enjoying the peace of the moment.

Before church we had Christmas Eve dinner with our cousin’s family. We exchanged a few presents and enjoyed a quick dash of the holiday innocence we were already outgrowing as we watched the two small boys bounce around the house with excitement. That same tradition took over as we went through high school, and then college, and kept going even as those two little boys went through high school and college and started showing up with their own little boys.

There have been so many different memorable experiences on so many Christmases. None of them were really the same, but a lot of them were similar enough for me to jigsaw together my archetype of Christmas Past, which never really happened during any given year. What I think of as my childhood Christmas is just a collection of scenes assembled and layered by the impermanence of memory.

Speaking for myself at least, Christmas doesn’t resonate the same way anymore. There are too many responsibilities and matters that, as adults, can only be paused for a day or two, if we’re lucky, instead of pushed aside and ignored. We still crave that innocence, that wanting myths and magic to be real, that quality of being so open to possibility. It felt perfectly natural to acknowledge and accept the confluence between the spiritual and the secular, and how that helped us make sense of parallel celebrations with different sets of traditions to honor.

Due to the combination of choices I’ve made and haven’t made in life, here I am in my 40s without a family of my own. Sometimes it’s great, but sometimes it’s really not. The only shot I had left at grabbing onto any real Christmas innocence has come and gone as my nephews have grown up. I can still remember looking in on the oldest one so many years ago, as he slept with the protection of a night light in a warm basement bedroom of my parents’ house. I knew when he woke in the morning he’d have half a moment wondering why he was there, then he’d remember it was Christmas morning and the day would come to life for him. That was my last brush with that kind of innocence, at least at that pure level. I don’t believe I’ve seen it since then, and it’s something I truly miss.

So what are we supposed to do as adults, when something as vital to childhood as Christmas spirit becomes arguably less than it used to be for us? Try to make the best of it? That’s kind of a depressing prospect. “Trying to Make the Best of It” implies effort is necessary, and the idea that anyone would have to work hard at making a holiday into something better than what they have is a bit sad. 

Maybe it should just be enough to let the day be its own best version. Instead of missing what it once was or wishing for what it someday might become, it’s probably best to accept, if not appreciate, what it is.

Why I'm Not Completely Excited About "The Force Awakens"

I saw Star Wars for the first time with my entire elementary school on a field trip. I still remember walking the five or so blocks to the single-screen movie theater in our tiny town, sitting in a row with all of my fourth grade buddies, getting blasted back into my seat by the opening fanfare and being completely overwhelmed in the best of all possible ways when that Imperial Star Destroyer flew over my head and kept on getting longer and longer and longer. I was immediately hooked.

Both of my sisters were in the theater that day as well. My younger sister Erin was as susceptible to overindulging in enthusiasm as I was at that age, and for the two of us, Star Wars became as much of a focal interest as anything else during whatever years remained of our childhood. As far as I could tell, our older sister Jenny probably liked the movie just fine that day, but instead of sharing in the same nerdery overdrive that had taken over Erin and me, she ended up quietly enduring ours. Erin and I collected the trading cards, starting with the hard-to-find blue set and continuing through red, green, yellow, and beyond. Star Wars was the only comic book I ever subscribed to. I had a yellow Star Wars t-shirt with the two droids on it that I wore until the picture had all but completely faded away. Erin had earned a blaster just like Han Solo's as a reward for (allegedly) breaking a bad habit. I once gave Jenny a gift of an R2D2 necklace, which she wore one time to pose for a picture on her birthday, and probably never touched again. Erin hung an Empire Strikes Back movie poster on the wall in the bedroom she and Jenny shared. I'm sure Jenny loved that.

Of course we collected the action figures: Luke, Leia, Han, Chewie, Ben, Vader, C3PO, R2D2, Yoda, Stormtroopers, Tuskan Raiders, Greedo, Walrus Man, Power Droid, even a Jawa. I'm sure I'm forgetting some, and I'm just as sure if Erin were still around she'd be able to point out which ones I'd overlooked. In our house, action figures weren't precious things that stayed in plastic collector's bubbles, but they lived up to their name. My Han Solo action figure was without a head for most of its tenure in our collection; in what I now recognize as an important developmental moment of my writer brain, I invented a backstory that explained how his head wasn't actually missing but was just invisible, and how he was on a quest to change things back. Erin had a landspeeder for our figures to ride around in, and she also had a Death Star play set (which was NOT the Star Wars equivalent of a Barbie Dream House). Outside of the expected possessive older brother/younger sister arguments, we always shared everything equally since the hundreds of adventures we came up with would be better served with the entire collected cast of characters.

We had the soundtrack album, and this was back in the days when vinyl was the standard. It was a double album, and side 4 was easily the best. When friends would come over, we'd play it loud and tip back the chairs in the basement against the walls so we could pretend we were manning the guns in the Millennium Falcon while escaping from the Death Star. I still remember the moment we were watching TV and saw an ad saying Star Wars (I still cannot, to this day, refer to it as "A New Hope") was going to be shown on broadcast television. Understand, these were the days before even a VCR in every home, and in our house the announcement of that upcoming broadcast was bigger than Christmas morning.

For the longest time after "Return of the Jedi" had come and gone and the story seemed to be done, Star Wars became just part of the cultural background. There were always rumors that teased episodes 1, 2, and 3 coming someday, and maybe even episodes 7, 8, and 9 when the actors from the original trilogy would be old enough to tell the story, but eventually the anticipation of this ever happening died down. The movies were always worth a re-watch if they ever showed up on TV, and that was good enough.

I was thrilled when the original trilogy movies were re-released, even if the digital "enhancements" weren't necessarily improvements. When "The Phantom Menace" came out in 1999 to launch the prequel trilogy, Erin and I waited in line at least an hour one Friday evening to see it. It was great at the time because it was more Star Wars, and a throwback to the seed of so many of our childhood adventures, but, as time has proven, the new trilogy didn't measure up to the original. When I got my first computer, one of the first games I bought for it, and in fact ordered the same time I ordered the computer itself, was Dark Forces, a Doom-clone set in the Star Wars universe. Not long after that I bought the X-Wing Collector's Edition, which ate up more of my free time than I will ever publicly admit. Erin didn't have a computer that could run these games, and she was noticeably jealous about it when I showed her how they worked.

In a just a couple of days I'll see "The Force Awakens," the first in the new trilogy that my nine-year-old self hoped for so many decades ago. The first reviews are in, and so far they're overwhelmingly positive. The trailers have been dominating YouTube for at least the past month and they look amazing. J.J. Abrams has a great track record as a director, and since he's about my age and grew up in the same haze of Star Wars love I did, that makes me think this movie could be close to perfect, and something like all of the adventures my little sister and I had come up with while playing on the sandy hill in our yard.

But she isn't here anymore, and she's not going to get to see it. Because of that, no matter how great the movie turns out to be, no matter how dreamlike the experience of seeing it the first time after decades of hope and anticipation will feel, something about it will always be slightly less for me than it should. I fully expect I'll love the movie. It would have been nice if she'd had the chance to love it, too.

Cinnamon 2: The Cinnamoning, Part 2

DAY 9

I went to a movie this afternoon and came home to a mostly darkened house. 

"Um, heh heh heh, little help here?" Cinnamon said, dangling from the ceiling from a string of decorative lights I'd recently bought. 

"Were you trying to decorate?" I asked, offering no assistance. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the sight a little. 

"No, I was just...well, it's not important what I was doing," he started, evasively. "Then out of nowhere I was knocked over the head, just clobbered by something really hard and sharp. I woke up like this about an hour ago. I'm getting a little tired of hanging like this. I'm sure all the blood would have rushed to my head by now, if I had any."

"I thought you told me things had been smoothed over with the Guild," I said. I couldn't resist taunting him some. "Sounds to me like someone isn't very happy with you."

"They are, I swear," he said. "This wasn't them. If they had sent a message like this, they wouldn't have been mysterious about who was behind it. This was something different. Can I please get down now?"

"I don't know," I said, putting my teacher voice to use as I walked away. "Can you?"


DAY 10

"You have to see this!" that brain-piercing voice called out. "I finished my book!" 

"Really. In just a matter of days, huh?" I asked. "That was...ambitious...of you."

He held it up as I entered the room. "What do you think?"

"I'm not sure that's going to work out the way you want," I said.

DAY 11

I'm dead tired after a long day at work. When I get home, I eventually sit down to check if there's anything other than ads about big sales in my e-mail. I find Cinnamon perched expectantly on my desk.

"Surprise!" he shouts. "I know how much you despise Mondays and how depressed you get this time of year, so I put together a nice candy dish for you as a welcome home treat! Go ahead and dig in!"

I can't tell if he's that stupid or he thinks I am. I let go of a deep sigh. "No thanks," I said. "I think I'll pass."

DAY 12

This sight? Not what you want to see right when you wake up. I don't even own this many Legos. I'm pretty sure this many legos wouldn't fit in my sad little toy chest. t carefully navigated the hallway and grabbed Cinnamon by his legs, yanking him from the pile where he'd been stuck, half buried.

"What's the big idea?" I demanded.

"It wasn't me!" he squawked after catching his breath. "I don't know what's going on!"

DAY 13

The TV was on when I got home tonight.

"I've been watching the news," Cinnamon said. "What do you know about this guy? He's been on all day long. He's got some interesting ideas. He sort of reminds me of some of the others back in the Guild." 

DAY 14

I'm just trying to sit down for a peaceful night and watch the Minnesota Vikings/Arizona Cardinals game when, out of nowhere, Cinnamon pops up right in front of the television like an eight-year-old who needs glasses (something with which I have experience from my own turn as an eight-year-old).

"Whoa! Who is THAT?!" he practically barks when the camera briefly pans along the sidelines.

"Get your fool head out of the way!" I tell him. "I'm trying to watch the game!" 

"Yowza! I can see why. So seriously, who is she?"

"She's a cheerleader, and she's cheering for the wrong team. She actually has very little to do with the game."

"So why do they put her on TV?"

"Well...you know what, I'd rather just watch the game than try to explain the sociological role of NFL cheerleaders in 21st Century America to someone as stupid as you are. Something tells me you aren't paying much attention right now anyway. Just get out of the way and shut up."

"She's going to be back on again though, right? Because I'll watch this game thing if she's going to be back on."

I thought back to last year, and the events that nearly led Cinnamon willingly to his own dismemberment and painful death, and said, "You really do kind of have a 'type,' don't you?"


DAY 15

For once things were quiet when I got home. I was ready for a quiet evening of recharging after a long week when I heard a struggle, followed by a rapid series of clicks and snaps, and then a quiet so sudden and full the house could barely contain it. 

"Ahem." The ridiculous dentist-drill voice clearing its throat sounded just like chewing on aluminum foil would feel, if not worse. "A little help here?"

I stepped around the love seat and saw Cinnamon, restrained, with a freakish little creature looming above him.

As soon as my shadow accidentally blocked the lamp light, the creature looked my way, gave its tiny weapon a menacing shake, and hopped away into the darkness.

"Just in time," he said. "You think you can, you know, get me out of here?" 

"Nah, I think your good for now," I said, sitting back down. "Just try to relax. And let me know if that thing shows up again."

DAY 16

The twerp hacked my Facebook account while I THOUGHT my phone was charging. I suppose I should feel lucky that he didn't cause any more damage than he did. Sorry for any confusion.

Cinnamon 2: The Cinnamoning, Part 1

DAY 1

It had been a quiet Thanksgiving this year, but a good one all the same. Dinner at my parents' house, dessert at my cousin's, and an uneventful drive home afterward. I watched one of the streamed episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 off the Apple TV, then went to bed.

I thought I'd turned off my alarm before going to bed. In fact, I was sure I had the night before. Still it blared to life and startled me awake. I reached over to slap at it when it went off this morning, turned on the lamp, and...

"GAHH!! YOU AGAIN?!"

"Hey dude, how ya been?" he squeaked. "It's good to see you, too!" Clavicus Hrothgar, a.k.a. Cinnamon, the same pain-in-the-butt elven sprite who had invaded my house during the holiday season last year, taking on the troubling appearance of one of those insipid "Elf on the Shelf" figures. I'd forgotten about that awful helium-on-helium voice of his. 

"I thought you were dead," I said, unconcerned that my disappointment was all too evident. The last I had seen of him was just a scrap of red felt on my front step on Christmas morning after he had escaped being nearly tortured to death. "How did you escape your enemies from the Guild last year?"

"Oh, that?" He laughed, waving it off. "That's all...yeah, everything's...you know, heh heh heh, don't worry about it. All in the past. We have more important things to discuss."

"We really don't," I said, turning off the lamp and rolling over.

"Oh, but I've got plans! And I think you're just the person to help me!" Then he paused. "But first, have you seen my hat anywhere?" 

I had, actually. I'd found something that had looked all too much like his hat in my driveway weeks before. I had hoped it wasn't what I thought it was, but when I tried to light it on fire and nothing happened, I was concerned. 

DAY 2

I had family over last night for some post-Thanksgiving good times and had the house back to its original state by the time I went to bed. I found this scene in the living room the following morning. 

“What ARE these things?" he said from a scattering of Lego blocks. "They’re awesome!”Yes, I'll admit it: I have a chest in my house full of toys, in case any friends of mine bring their kids over. 

“You’re an elf. And you’ve never seen Legos before.”

“Legos? HA! That’s a weird name.”

“Yeah, sure…Cinnamon. How did you even find those?”

“Um…remember that little kid that was here last night? And you got these out of that chest for him? And he was playing with them while that other little kid was running around everywhere? Yeah. He must have left them out.”

“No, actually, that little kid’s dad put them all away when they left. So….”

“Well, I don’t know what happened then. They got out somehow. I found them like this."

“Sure. Because Legos habitually throw themselves all over the house.”

He paused. “It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?"

I unceremoniously tossed him into the other room and began picking up the blocks. Funny thing was, I didn't recognize all of the ones he had out. I only had a few small sets, and even though it's been years since they had been taken out of the chest -- until the night before, at least -- I knew what the sets were like. Maybe I just thought I did. 

DAY 3

At least I didn't have to go outside to get the newspaper today. Cinnamon already had it spread out all over the kitchen, with sections on the table, the counter, and the floor. It looked like I was preparing to house-train a collection of birds. 

"This!" he squeaks. "This whole Elf on the Shelf thing! This is what I was talking about! It's all about branding! Do you have any idea how much cash these chumps are raking in on this racket? I know that girl in the ad! She isn't anywhere as friendly as innocent as she looks here! We need to get in on this action!"

"Aren't you already a part of that?" I asked. 

"I was," he said, sounding disgustingly pitiful. "Not anymore, though. After all that drama last year, with me almost being sliced into small pieces, which was really more than just a huge misunderstanding on their part, by the way, I had to sign away my likeness rights during negotiations with the Guild to get them off my back. But I made sure there was a contractual loophole that would allow me to still ride the wave of this fad. I don't need those other clowns. I want to start from scratch and brand MYSELF. I could be the Grand Emperor of Pinterest in less than a week."

He showed me this ad. "See that book? Kids love storybooks, right? And this time of year their parents will buy them practically anything! That's our gateway! That's where we start! Draw a few sketches, think up some rhymes, and boom! Done! How hard can it be? I could have it all done by dinner time!"

"I heard a 'we' in there."

"Oh heck yeah, I'll cut you in! I'll handle the creative, you set things up on the business end. Do you know anyone who can hook us up with a publisher? Anyone with industry contacts?"

"No," I answered quickly. "Sorry. Can't help you there."

"Shoot," he said. "That's all right, I guess. I can't believe getting a book published involves more than making a few phone calls. I'm sure I'll think of something. Why don't you make me some eggs now that you're finally out of bed?"

DAY 4

I feel slightly at peace after driving through the first heavy flakes of the approaching storm on my way home. I walk in the house to find one lamp on, with Cinnamon sitting beside a closely-guarded remote control. 

"A Charlie Brown Chistmas, 50th anniversary," he says. "We're watching it. End of discussion."

I kick off my shoes and sit in the recliner on the other side of the table, taking the remote out of his reach. "You know what?" I say. "I'm perfectly fine with that."

DAY 5

"Check it," he says. "I found more! These are awesome!" He was sitting in an even larger pile of Legos. So many were scattered so far around the carpeting I was sure he had upended the toy chest and dumped out every piece I own. I was furious.

"Okay, A, there were no kids here last night for you to blame," I started. "And B, I'm not even sure there's even room for that many Legos in my toy chest. And C -- you are totally picking those up."

"Yeah, yeah, fine. No problemo. You have to go off to whatever 'school' is anyway, don't you? Don't worry your balding little head about it. I have everything under control."

After so many years as a teacher, I have a pretty strong sixth sense about when I'm being lied to.

DAY 6

I forgot my iPad at home this morning when I went to school. Bad idea, and not just because if left me without all of my terribly valuable spreadsheets. 

"I've been thinking about branding ideas today," he said. "I figure once my book comes out, I'll have to be prepared for a lot of appearances and signings. That's what writers do, right? Plan for stuff like that? I've seen you sit for hours doing nothing but practicing your autograph. That's some impressive focus you have."

I felt my face turn red. "You what?! When did you...I never...I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hey, whatevs, it's all good. So what do you think of mine?" He held up the iPad to show me the screen. "I figure since you didn't need this today I might as well practice on a touch screen. That way we both aren't wasting reams of paper practicing autographs, am I right?"

"Shut up," I said, looking it over. "Who's Michelle?" I asked, cautiously. "A new friend of yours? You didn't invited anyone in last night, did you?"

He laughed out loud and my right ear began bleeding a little. "Oh no! I learned my lesson after last year. It's just some random name that came to me. Gotta be ready for everyone, right?"

DAY 7

I woke to a sound more startling than my alarm, something between laughter and a growing cry of distress.

"Stop, stop, really! It doesn't tickle now! This isn't fun anymore!" 

A scream of pain broke through the morning darkness. I got out of bed and hurried to the living room, turning on lights along my way. I saw that wherever Cinnamon spends the night while I'm sleeping, he must not concern himself with hiding very well.

"Help!" he shrieked as the lights came on. My parents' dogs had found him. Shamus had Cinnamon pegged as the unwelcome guest he is, while Butch watched with semi-curiosity, as is his usual way.

I felt a moment of pride at the scene before finally calling Shamus away -- not for Cinnamon's sake really, but because Shamus has such a sensitive little tummy, and there's no telling what might happen with bits of elf in his system. I led the dogs into the kitchen and gave them each a well-earned treat instead. By the time I walked back into the living room, Cinnamon had crawled away to hide somewhere. 

DAY 8

The house smelled amazing when I got home, but my heart raced into a panic when I realized there was a lit candle burning in the kitchen. Did I actually light a candle before going in to school and forgot about it? I'd never done that before. Seeing who sat beside it only made the situation worse. 

"Could you please never again use matches in my home, ever?!" I yelled. "Unless you're curious about discovering how fireproof your stupid elf suit is?"

"You're failing to see the big picture," he replied, shaking his head in the most condescending manner. "See? I bought this today! It has my name right on the label! Plus 'sparkling,' which perfectly describes me! This is exactly the kind of branding I've been looking for!"

"I don't think the company had you in mind when they made that," I said. 

He considered that for a moment. "Okay. Well, how about this then? We get them to put my face right on the label, instead of that pile of firewood-looking stuff, whatever that is! They could probably do that, right?"

"No," I said quickly. "I'm sure that would be impossible."

"Hmm, really? Oh well. It still smells nice. By the way, I had to use your credit card to pay for it. I hope that's cool. Plus I don't remember where I left it. I mean, I think I brought it back from the store, but I can't say that with 100% confidence. But you have a really colorful card, so I'm sure it will be easy for you to spot, especially if I dropped it on the ground somewhere.

I shook my head, blew out the candle, walked into the living room and collapsed face-first onto the sofa, just long enough to catch my breath. Then I got back up, walked into the office, and looked up the number of my credit card company.