Ghosts of Christmases Past

I love Christmas and always have, but over the years it’s been for different reasons. It’s always been my favorite holiday. In fact, I love the entire season. I’m so eager for Thanksgiving to be done and bummed when New Year’s passes, and it’s all over. I love the movies. I love the decorations. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I loved the presents (maybe a little too much!)

I have many happy memories that emanate from the Christmas season, some that elicit laughter and tears, some that are bittersweet and poignant. It’s funny, but those memories surrounding Christmas are so potent, even the ones embedded deeply in my childhood.

In a way though, at this moment in time, I feel like Scrooge being taken on a tour of his life by the Ghost of Christmas Past. I’ve always felt a certain affinity with the old miser, and I have a tendency to project certain aspects of his personality on to my own. He hated Christmas, so it’s not like we’re identical in every way, but I have, over the years, lost a great deal of innocence, naiveté and that sense of wonder that comes with youth and every new experience.

It helps especially at this season to recall those times, both happy and sad. In those moments of reverie, I envision myself as Scrooge escorted by the Ghost, being reminded of the many blessings he enjoyed over the years, as well as the moments that caused him to turn his back on humanity, all long since forgotten. I haven’t forgotten, but as time goes on, they “recede from the view.”

I have my parents to thank for making Christmas so magical for me in the early years. I never knew at the time how much they sacrificed to make sure each holiday was special, and that anything I asked for, Santa provided.

In those early years, I would write Santa a letter and hang it on the tree on Christmas Eve. When I came downstairs the following morning, he had written me back, in red ink no less, telling me that I was a good boy and to keep up the good work. One year, he even called the house. When my mother told me who it was, I started to cry and could barely speak.

My parents never let me down on Christmas, no matter how challenging my lists were. Invariably, there would be some hard to find toy or video game that would elude them the entire season, but somehow working in concert, they managed to snag each and every one before zero hour.

Christmas Eve was always the “special time” in my household. When I was really young, it was the time Mom and Dad would give me their gifts. Christmas Day was reserved for Santa. As the years went on, and the truth behind Santa was revealed, Christmas Eve retained its importance, in favor of the next morning.

Christmas took on an entirely new significance in my late teens. My first real relationship took shape around the Christmas holidays, and in some ways, gave me an excuse to push the agenda. I remember giving my first girlfriend a card that, while explicitly saying nothing, sent a winking message that I liked her.

My favorite memory of that entire relationship occurred in front of a Christmas tree. On the day after I asked her out (an embarrassing moment I recently recounted here) she invited me to a Christmas party. Of course I agreed!

I knew no one at the party, and brought a few of my friends as back-up in case she got too preoccupied with catching up with her friends. They were an extremely friendly bunch and were very welcoming. However, as the night wore on, I felt kind of forgotten, and found myself sitting behind the tree, wondering what the hell I was doing there. I was feeling a bit paranoid too, wondering if she was really on board with this whole thing.

She came and found me, sat down next to me, and I related to her that I thought I didn’t belong there. Maybe I’m over dramatizing this moment, and maybe I’m looking at it through the gauzy haze of an idealized past, but what she did next made me simply melt. She looked at me, not with a smile, but a very thoughtful glance, and held my hand. How long we sat there not speaking I can’t say, but it was a watershed moment for me, one that spoke volumes without uttering a sound.

The scene changed though, and I found myself, Ebenezer like, viewing the next Christmas with her. She presented me with an album that recounted the entire last year’s milestones and again, I melt. As quickly as that fades, I find myself in the exact same spot the following year, essentially telling her I can no longer be a part of her life. In the space of three Christmases, I felt as though I lived a lifetime.

Christmas didn’t play a major role in my next relationship, although it lasted four years. I did get the boot though, right before Christmas, and I spent the holidays that year in a miserable fog, and could barely muster the strength to pretend I was enjoying the proceedings. I have to credit my parents for holding me up during that time, and their gentle patience with my morose state.

My future wife and I got engaged before our first Christmas, and that certainly took the heat off what to get her as a gift - she already had a ring! It was a wonderful experience bringing her around to friends and family that year as my fiancée.

Our first Christmas as a married couple brought with it the simple joys of preparing our first holiday together. She pulled out all the stops, decorating our modest apartment beautifully. I’ll also never forget the sight of our cat tangled up in a mass of lights and garland, screeching for dear life.

Much to her chagrin, my wife started a tradition that year with buying me ornaments particular to my tastes, like Star Trek, superheroes and the like. We got a little “Charlie Brown” tree for me to put them on, as they were not allowed on the main tree (of course!) Over the last decade, the Charlie Brown tree has grown to a six-footer, entirely populated by the heroes of my youth!

For a time, we had two trees, but eventually my wife tired of the experience, and gave hers up, in favor of keeping me happy with mine, and it remains the family tree.

The holidays consistently stir up all these memories for me. I’ve held one personal tradition for at least the last ten years or so, and that’s watching Alastair Sim’s version of “A Chistmas Carol,” precisely around the time Jacob Marley visits him. I see it as a cautionary tale, not to let myself be overcome by my general lack of faith in humanity, and recall in my own mind, all the happy and sad moments that informed who I have become, and be grateful for all of them.

On a larger scale, I’ve been on a sentimental journey this entire year. I’m not sure how long it will last, but I’m grateful I’ve had the opportunity to make peace with all these disparate memories using this blog as a tool. Merry Christmas!