Caramel corn, pop corn in general, is one of my favorite foods, and, as I am writing this, I am trying to pour the last remaining crumbs of a bag full of caramel corn into my mouth without getting it on the keyboard, the chair, the carpet, or me -- unsuccessfully I might add. The keys are already a little sticky and the dog keeps coming into the room to see what else I've dropped on the floor. Pleasant images aside, I am finishing off my treat from a day spent Christmas shopping. Ah Christmas, that lovely time of year that one-third of the population loves, one-third loathes, and about which the last third either hasn't made up their minds or just doesn't care. It's that odd combination of religious and pagan tradition, that peculiar concoction which mixes childhood fantasies with mistletoe and hard alcohol and church and purees it together to form a generally confusing ordeal. I, for the record, happen to love it.
I love every minute of it from advent wreaths and classic carols to kitschy, and apparently infinite, remakes of holiday standards. I love Christmas shopping (provided the crowds aren't too suffocating). I love Santa and his elves (though I never actually believed the whole Santa thing). I love Christmas trees, which have been known to hang around a tad too long (say, Valentine's Day) when I'm in charge of removal. The trouble with loving all of it is that when one thing goes wrong, everything else is thrown off-kilter. Suddenly, there isn't snow here and the thought of a white-less Christmas is depressing. But I find that I struggle far more frequently with the religious aspects of Christmas and how they align (or don't, rather) with the overzealous commercialism of the season.
Take this year, for instance. Way back in October, before Halloween, stores were pulling out the Christmas trees and ornaments and decorations. Thanksgiving occupied nothing more than a corner shelf in a florist's shop. It isn't a new problem. If you ever watch Miracle on 34th Street, you'll know that (the original; I don't do remakes). I think of Alfred and Santa down in the locker room at Macy's discussing commercialism after Santa's been handed a list of unpopular toys to foist on indecisive children. Alfred puts it well when he says, "Yeah, there's a lot of bad 'isms' around this world, but one of the worst is commercialism. Make a buck, make a buck. Even in Brooklyn it's the same -- don't care what Christmas stands for, just make a buck, make a buck."
I don't think that the idea of buying presents for each other bothers me at all. It's lovely to think about what other people might want. But the problem is that sometimes we just buy without thought, without real concern for what people may actually like or need. It seems more as if we're playing into some great, corporate joke, which, in a way, I suppose we are.Working at a store now, I see the off-handed way with which so many people approach gift giving. Husbands, husbands -- not friends or neighbors or co-workers or casual acquaintances -- husbands (and wives, if I'm being fair, though it is honestly usually husbands), rush in on Christmas Eve to buy their wives presents. And if that isn't enough, I'm somehow expected to reach into my cosmic goody bag known as "feminine intuition", which makes all women instantly know what all other women will want for Christmas, and come up with two or five brilliant gift ideas. I may also mention that I'm somehow expected to know these poor wives' sizes. (I ask: "what size is she?" He says: "Well, your size, but.... tighter." Or if he's desperate and trying to be nice: "Like you. Perfect." I head to the nearest rack of the most expensive sweaters and recommend one in every color.)
But, in the evenings, when I'm home, I remember the glory days of school and teaching (though I absolutely do not miss grading) when I got two whole weeks off at Christmas, when I could be the one home all day drinking cocoa, wrapping presents, baking cookies (watching them be baked -- I knew no one would fall for that) and, when I wanted I bit of exercise, I could wander downtown and assault sales clerks with my lethargic attempts at perusing gift options for my brother. Now I find myself having to make time for Christmas shopping. Suddenly, I'm excited by the prospect of four whole days off (not in a row) around Christmas. This depresses me even more than the lack of snow. How am I supposed to really invest myself, my time, my gift-wrapping talents, in the Christmas season if all I get are four lousy days? And then somewhere, over the crackling downtown speaker system or the fuzzy radio Christmas station, I hear "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..." and all else falls away.
"On a time when Rupert the Good King reigned over the City in the forests, he decreed that, throughout all his realm, there should be no sorrow nor lack of cheer on Christmas Day." Thus begins one of my favorite Christmas stories from childhood. Written by George Horace Lorimer, it is the story of a king who spends his Christmases waiting for the Christ Child to visit him. The king realizes the the Child primarily visits the poor, so the king sets about making sure the poor are cared for and happy at Christmas to further ensure that the Christ Child will visit him.
To say that this story was always my absolute favorite of all Christmas stories would probably be misleading. In fact, it would be a plain and simple lie. It comes in a slim volume of Christmas stories published by the Saturday Evening Post in 1976, and I grew up looking through it every December. It's one of those books that you open up and immediately you feel five-years-old again. The pages have a distinctive scent that pages don't seem to have anymore.The pictures are bold holiday illustrations by Guernsey Moore, J.C. Leyendecker, Norman Rockwell, and all those Saturday Evening Post artists. Stories that initially captivated me included "Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa," O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi," and Laura Ingalls Wilder's "Christmas on the Prairie."
But when I was about twelve, and blatantly preoccupied with pretending to be an adult, I read Lorimer's story for the first time. It is not, I suppose, a feat of great literary proportions; it would probably not end up in a canon of "greatest short stories ever" (Christmas or otherwise), and I suppose it does come across as didactic (or just plain preachy, whichever you like). I think when I first read it, it appealed to me as being very grown up.The story seemed to be steeped in Old World traditions, though it was written in the 30s (I think) by the editor of the Saturday Evening Post. It was a step away from all the tomfoolery of paganism and St. Nick. Now, don't let me give you the impression that I ever had any issues with any of that -- I had just wanted, and often still want, a more overtly religious tone to my holiday.
As I mentioned, the king spends his Christmases preparing for the Christ Child by glaming up his castle and feeding his poor so they won't get in the way of his moment of glory. And, just when he believes he is finally going to receive a visit -- the star hovers over one of the castle's parapets -- he is infuriated and hurt to see it disappear with the Child. Angrily, he climbs the endless stairs (it really does take a while to get up there) to the tower only to find a poor orphan sleeping, happily, on the floor. "Wroth was the king with that one, " Lorimer writes,"the meanest of his serfs, had been preferred to him."
Giving, as I said, is not bad; Christmas presents are not wrong. We are taught at church that we give gifts to replicate that first, greatest gift of Christmas, and it is an extremely wonderful thing to remember. But that first gift was not off-the-cuff, last minute, or rushed. It had been planned well in advance. It came with sacrifice and sorrow, but also with thanksgiving and joy. I have always found it strange that we are so often caught up in debunking the myths of Christmas -- whether the nativity scene we traditionally see is accurate, what time of year Christ was really born, if the star was actually a star or something else. And, I wonder, why does it matter? We celebrate it because it is mercy and grace in its humblest and purest form; we remember because we must.
In Lorimer's story, when the king finally realizes his mistake, he picks up the poor orphan who stole his moment of glory and takes him back to the castle: "And when he reached the empty hall, there, too, was a radiance. From that brightness a little Child came running out to meet him, and lo! it was the Christ."
The message is fairly clear. When we finally learn to set aside our pride, our various resentments, our bitterness, our anger, our selfish interests, we find Christmas. It is, perhaps, a hackneyed message, but one which bears repeating again and again, endlessly, until, maybe, we get it at last.
