Becoming Scrooge

I have yet to get around to trading out my swimsuit drawer for my hat and mitten drawer, and its Christmas again. Didn’t we just celebrate that, and can’t it wait a few more months? My schedule is too full for festivities right now. Bah humbug!

I’m not sure when time started moving faster for me, but I estimate I’ve lost about a day a year since I turned 21, which adds up to 30 days, or pretty much the whole month of December. That might explain why my holiday spirit has been lacking.

Or perhaps it is because the heralding of the holidays that once started with the Bing Crosby Christmas special now proceeds with protests of whether the public tree with lights on it should be called a holiday tree or a Christmas tree. How about if we just call it “pretty” and leave it at that? And lately I noticed the jolly Santa sledding on an electric razor (a great gift for Dad!) has been replaced by Give a Lexus for Christmas ads, sending me into an anti-Santa spiral as I envy all the people who might really be getting a Lexus for Christmas, while I estimate my recent car repair bill to be paid off sometime in early 2013.

Over the years, my Christmas list has changed from ‘things I would love and can’t live without’to ‘things I need but can’t afford to buy’, to this year’s festive lament ‘please don’t buy me anything as I have no time to shop for you’. Needless to say, it has become painfully obvious that whether by choice or natural evolution, I am in danger of Scrooging myself, and turning into the cranky, joyless, workaholic I swore I’d never be.

But all is not lost, because those who know me know I can’t do anything half way, including this Scrooging myself thing. And if you recall the story, the ghost of Christmas’yet to come gave Scrooge the opportunity to change and re-capture the true meaning of the season before it was too late; which is not about carrying heavy burdens of shopping bags from the mall to the car, but about lightening the load for others we can help along the way with positive thoughts, words and actions and appreciating the same thoughtful gestures shown to us by others. And while I haven’t gone as far as screaming Merry Christmas out of my 2ndfloor window to passer bys, I have taken a deep breath and realized that I still have much to be grateful for, including memories of Christmas’ past.

Which leads me to my annual holiday story about my brother Stephen and me, retold every year as a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe.

I call it 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.

My brother has been gone 12 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.