I like Christmas.
But I don’t know that I’ll ever love Christmas as much as I did when I was a kid.
It was the anticipation of the big day – that moment of walking into the living room and seeing what Santa Claus had left under the tree.
Sleeping with my cousins in twin beds pushed together, listening to my mother telling stories to get us to sleep so we wouldn’t hear our dads and my aunt putting toys together in the living room.
It was there in that bed that my cousin Andy and I first reasoned that reindeer couldn’t fly and therefore Santa Claus couldn’t be real. But we decided to go along with it, so as not to spoil it for the younger ones.
The kindness of eight year olds.
Really it was more than Christmas morning – it was all the stuff that led up to that day – the little things you did in preparation. Year after year. All the traditions and huge little things you did with people who made it special.
Bringing in all the musty boxes of decorations from the garage.
Decorating the tree.
Wrapping presents in front of the fireplace.
Eating baked fudge and fruitcake cookies and drinking spiced tea.
Watching Rudolph on tv.
Learning Christmas carols in music class and making ornaments in art.
And even though it was just a pill bottle covered in blue glitter with a bent paper clip for a hanger, it hung on my parents’ Christmas tree for years.
On trees that we’d picked out at the Boys’ Club lot downtown.
And on the way home we’d drive by the Burns’ Christmas display, when it was still at their house on the corner in Country Club.
It took a whole month to do all those things.
So I think I’ll devote the whole month to writing about the huge little things that make this time of year special.
I’d love to hear about yours, too.