Christmas is magical when you’re a kid, no doubt.
The first many Christmases are amazing to a young child because it’s all new. You’re young and always learning, experiencing, and filled with wonder. You learn more about the holidays and their idealized versions.
When I was a young boy I loved Christmas morning the most. Though my parents never tried to keep the myth of Santa Claus alive, it was always the warmest feeling to walk out to the living room on December 25th and find presents where had only been bare carpet the night before. While I was ambivalent as to whether or not a large man in a red suit had actually squeezed down our chimney to deliver them (or whether it had been my parents, whom I could hear padding up and down the hallway at night), it was still a magical surprise the next morning.
There were lots of presents, most of them plastic-y. The living room seemed full of toys for my younger brother and me…only later did we figure out that plastic toys were more plentiful as presents in our youth because they cost so much less than the desired gifts of an adolescent. My brother and I tore open wrapping paper to reveal toys, especially cars, and played with abandon for the rest of the day.
Christmas morning was the original wonder of Christmas.
Later, after my brother and I figured how it all worked – perhaps by sneaking into our parents’ closet and finding toys there – the wonder shifted to the decorations themselves. By this point we were, though still young, big enough to help set up Christmas lights and indoor decorations.
And decorate we did!
I remember my Mom and brother decorating the inside of the house while my Dad and I lugged strands of lights outside, setting up a plethora of multicolored lights. Inside, doorways and tabletops became resting places for silvery garlands and snow-simulating white blankets and puffs of stuffing.
The apex of our wondeful decorating, transforming the house from its normal utilitarian self to a holiday abode, came at the beginning of junior high. Outside we were lit to the max, and inside we had a massive Christmas village constructed on the dining room table, centered in front of the large window so that passing cars could admire it whilst they viewed the stunning Christmas lights of our cul-de-sac. I was proud that our street was on the local tour of lights and, come late December, endless streams of cars prowled around looking at the decorations of Metz Place.
Transformation from the ordinary to extraordinary was the second wonder of Christmas. The joy of seeing and being seen – simple vanity.
Sadly, of course, all things that flow must also ebb, and soon we decreased of Christmas decorating. Cookies, lights, garlands, wreaths, and ornate porcelain villages became fewer in number. Tabletops remained functional instead of becoming decorative.
Christmas became about the people involved instead.
As the holiday itself became more functional than decorative, I rebelled against the idea of wish lists that gave webpage links – I wanted a little mystery and thought-provoking with my Christmas shopping.
My goal became to make Christmas mornings great. What unprompted or unrequested gift could I give that would be meaningful and memorable?
I would hit the stores and try to recall tidbits of information about friends and family that could be translated into heartfelt presents. I wanted to surprise, entertain, and bring back some of the mystery and anticipation I so enjoyed as a young boy.
And through it all: The constant desire for a Rockwell-esque white Christmas. Like something enjoyed by those in the northeast – deep, thick, hearty, Santa-at-the-North-Pole snow. In December 1998 my hometown was granted ten inches of snow, courtesy of El Nino.
Will it ever come again on the day I wish it most? The evening of Christmas Eve, snowing through until morning? That surprise would surpass any of my Christmas dreams.