The Night We Saw Rudolph

Of all the memories I have in my life, some of my most vivid are of the holiday season. It was my mother’s favorite time of year, and she always tried to make it special. As a child I would get so cranked up about Christmas, I’d be a ball of stress the whole month as I carefully counted down the days on my advent calendar.

It would start the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, as I watched cartoons in my pajamas with a notebook and pencil. Every commercial would feature something else that I positively, absolutely needed Santa to bring me. Just in case I missed anything, I would drag the huge Sears catalog which weighed half my body weight, up to my bedroom and carefully circle everything I didn’t realize that I couldn’t possibly live without until I saw it.

The tinsel on our tree was laid on so thick you could smell it burning into the giant light bulbs, so hot you could heat the living room with them. My mother featured various color themes over the years, from multi, to white to the well intentioned but woefully depressing blue Christmas. Before cable TV, we had only one shot at seeing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or It’s a Wonderful Life, and it would make my entire day to know that A Charlie Brown Christmas would be on later that night followed by the Bing Crosby special.

The night before the long awaited day, I’d don my new flannel PJs and leave cookies and milk for Santa, carrots for the reindeer, and my wish list so long it could be bound into a novel.

Christmas morning we’d peak down the stairs and nearly pass out at the excitement of seeing multitudes of gifts under the tree. And that is the moment it would all go bad for me, as deep from within I’d get a feeling that I had "pulled a fast one" on Santa. I knew I had not been as good as he thought I was, and felt undeserving of his generosity. Thoughts of the tree getting thrown out, no more holiday lights or TV specials, and another 364 days until the next holiday would depress me so badly I could barely enjoy the day I had waited and worried about for so long.

Eventually the little girl grew older, and replaced her giant list of "stuff" with a very short list of health for our family, peace for our world and a brighter future for those in need. But before that, I got another shot at discovering the magic of Christmas through my brother Stephen’s eyes, 10 years younger than me. Which brings me to the title of this column.

Of all my memories, there is one special one that Stephen and I shared that has become a holiday tradition. It is special not only because we both vividly recall it, but because it perfectly illustrates how when practical vs. magical, magical is the winner. I call this story, The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light. His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered "Rudolph…!" just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say "Remember the night we saw Rudolph?" and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond "That wasn’t Rudolph, it was…." and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say "SShhhh, it was Rudolph" and we’d just smile.

Although my brother has been gone 10 Christmases, I still tell that story every year to anyone who will listen. And looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.

That’s Just What Happens as You Get Older

From a very young age, I felt older than my years. In my teens, I babysat my brother, 10 years younger. Whether walking him to the playground or bringing him to a Salem High School poster party, I was always aware that I was responsible for someone other than just me. In college, I worked in the Office of Academic Affairs, and spent more time with my professors than with my classmates.

My first newspaper management opportunity came when I was 25 years old. Young and petite, I had to project myself as older and wiser to avoid being viewed as "the little girl in Classified", trying to appear bigger and roar louder to be taken seriously, something the animal kingdom has practiced successfully for centuries.

Halfway through my 49th year, or "almost 50" as I call it, I still round my age up. I realize this is not the girly thing to do, but I’d rather have someone think I look good for an older age than like crap for the age I really am. The truth is, I have no desire to hide my age, and being a runner I have no choice. When the results of one of my first races was published in the newspaper, my mother said in horror "I can’t believe they printed your AGE!" But while being my age doesn’t bother me, feeling my age does.

Sitting at my desk typing, I notice a spot on the back of my hand. The dermatologist examines it carefully under a magnifying glass, and delivers her expert analyses: "It’s an age spot. That’s just what happens as you get older." Easy for her to say, as my fantasies of eternal youth are crushed and my countdown clock starts ticking.

THAT’S JUST WHAT HAPPENS AS YOU GET OLDER. That diagnosis wrote the verse I’ve heard repeatedly since then, like a song you hate but can’t stop singing. My morning back pain? That’s just what happens as you get older. Gray hair? That’s just what happens as you get older. Is it 1,000 degrees in here or is it me? That’s just what happens as you get older. I recently met up with college friends I reconnected with on Facebook. We remarked cheerfully how little we had changed over the past 20 years, until the menus came. In a scene reminiscent of a Wild West gunfight, we eyed each other silently, then simultaneously drew our reading glasses and laughed. That’s just what happens as you get older!

The funny thing about is aging, is the definition of "old" depends on who you are talking to. While I’m closer to be called "Ma’am" than "Miss" by a stranger, in the eyes of adults who knew me from childhood, I’m still a kid. Like a scene from Cold Case where a young person slowly morphs into their current age, we remain at our core the same evolving soul, albeit in a body that doesn’t always cooperate with our youthful intentions. While there is little I can do to stop my body from traveling along on its physical journey, I can open the door and drag my feet to slow it down. Not because I fear aging, but because I have come to enjoy living.

And that is what happens as you get older.