Scrooged!

Last night, I watched A Christmas Carol--an ancient version from 1938. I love A Christmas Carol because I am always waiting for that moment when Scrooge brings poor, beleaguered Bob and his family the biggest Christmas goose in town.

And really, Scrooge's story is about rewriting his life with a new ending. If you ever live vicariously through your characters, then you get to rewrite those parts of your life you would like to do over or do differently. My characters are always smarter than I am. Funnier than I am. They certainly dress better. My characters do not have Demon Babies that think nothing is more hilarious than sticking baby fingers onto Mama's lips and smearing lipstick down her chin. Their lives are far more glamorous usually. But . . . I am never tempted to rewrite my own ending. Writing is all for fun, and I'll stick with my Demon Baby and smeared lipstick, and today, these sweatpants and nightshirt and socks.

When I look to Christmas past, I always feel a bit of nostalgia. I know some people have a difficult time at the holidays. They miss people no longer with us. Or they have horrid childhoods and associate the holidays with memories of Christmas dysfunction. My Christmases, though, were always spectacular. My father grew up very, very poor, and he had never had a Christmas. In fact, until he met my mother, he had never had a birthday party. The day just wasn't observed. So I think he and my mother decided to make each Christmas "perfect," thereby rewriting my Dad's ending. We always got the big-ticket items we wanted--and only now do I understand the budgeting and sacrifice that goes into ensuring that. The tree was always beautiful, Christmas morning always happy and filled with smells of coffee and danish. Then we went visiting. My aunt, my cousins, my other cousins, my OTHER cousins. Yeah, we stretched out visiting from 11:00 in the morning until midnight.

Christmas present? Well, that I always assoicate with my own Christmas with my kids. It's usually insane . . . lots of presents, Christmas music, Demon Baby running wild. But in Christmas present I am always a LOT more tired than Christmas past. Now I know why my poor mother and father looked so exhausted on Christmas. They WERE exhausted--up until long past midnight on Christmas Eve doing the last of the wrapping and putting together bicycles. I somewhat dread Christmas Eve.

Christmas future? Well, I hope mine is less grim than Scrooge's. But I do understand time's inexorable march. Christmas cannot help but be tinged by those no longer here to share it. My Christmas really isn't my childhood Christmas, even if I wanted it to be the same. My grandparents are no longer here. We no longer speak to my father's side of the family (for complicated reasons of extraordinary betrayal on their part). My cousins are scattered across five or six states. Christmas reminds you of the losses . . .

But I still love Christmas. And as a writer, I wouldn't rewrite mine, or want to live through my characters. I like my memories just as they are.

As the saying goes. God bless us, everyone.

Happy holidays! Feel free to share your favorite holiday memories.