Santa, that bearded, jolly, gift-giving symbol of "behave, or else!" Santa, that self-appointed judge and jury of who's naughty and who's nice, that fodder for children's stories, that deceptively like-able fellow who has the final say over whether or not you receive gifts or a stocking full of coal... Who gave you that power anyways, fat guy?
For ages this over weight candidate for a heart-attack has been the symbol of what kept most kids in line throughout the year. Want that new huffy bike? Better keep your grades up! Love that new Clay Aiken CD? Keep being nice to your lecherous little sister! Want to get a hold of that Wii? Better stop stealing valium from mommy! Have your eye on that shiny new Red Rider Bee-bee gun? Ah! You'll shoot your eye out, kid!
The idea of Santa keeping an eye on each and everyone of us, tirelessly catching all of our wrong-doings, and all of our rights, is sinisterly reminiscent of 1984 and Big Brother, The Lord of the Rings and the Eye of Sauron, the Smurfs and Gargamel. Ok, maybe not that latter, but you get my meaning. Santa represents the idea of an omniscient being with the power to rip away the joy from the most important day in a kids life and replace it with a dirty sock full of coal.
Now, despite the overall tone thus far of this posting, I'd like to submit that I am a complete sap when it comes to Christmas. Hard to believe! I know. But the truth of the matter is that I own Holiday Inn, White Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Elf, A Christmas Story, Charlie Brown's Christmas, The Grinch, and Polar Express. Yes, I'm a complete cheese-ball. Go ahead and yuck it up. But here's the thing: I love the spirit of Christmas. I love the idea of spreading unconditional love, joy, peace, and happiness. I love the damned sappiness of the cheesiest of Christmas songs (with the exception of Last Christmas, by Wham!. Want to see that vein on my forehead stick out and throb? Play that song. I dare you. I'll show Santa naughty...). But, more than anything else, even more than the well being of my own ego, most of what I love about Christmas is my family. And I love what Christmas stands for, in the context of family. In essence, I do love Christmas. Hell, I'm writing this blog by the lights of my Charlie-Brown-esque Christmas tree that I picked out from the field myself! (my friend Robin likened the chopping of the little guy to an abortion. How's that for holiday cheer?)
So why the tirade against Jolly Ol' St. Nick? To be honest, I have no good reason except for my own misgivings for having played by his rules for so long. Why, in the name of Pete (who is this Pete guy anyways?), would I waste so many opportunities for misguided, good-old-fashioned fun, just to appease the Christmas Dictator? Why did I pass up all of those terribly tempting opportunities for mischief? For stuff! That's why! I wanted stuff. And what do we do when we want stuff in America? We get it. Just ask all of those McDonald-eating, Judge Judy-watching, I-got-into-a-car-wreck-and-want-my-money-now patriotic souls what we do when we want stuff. We get it. And ironically, somehow Santa is where it all starts.
So what do I say to you, Big Guy? Here's what: One full year, 365 days and nights, full of all the trouble my twisted brain can think of is well worth that measely, dirty, dingy, stinky stocking full of coal (I'll sell it to the train yard) that you give me in return.
I'm going to Vegas.
4 comments:
I always knew you were a sap...I love Christmas too. I start watching the Polar Express and Elf, and the Christmas Story, and the Mickey Mouse one, and Charlie Brown..well you get my point. I watch those months in advance.
I don't know about you, but the whole Santa will skip this house threat never worked with me...I was bad anyway. LOL
Merry Christmas Sweetie!
That's too bad you write in english...lol It sounds very interesting but i think your english is too litterary for me. Usually, i understand english a little bitte but when i read your english , it sounds like i'm reading one of those books I'm working on at my litterature class....too much work for my little frenchy brain....lol
I need to go back here a day I will be with my dictionnary.....
This subject is so near and dear to my heart that I had to respond. My father, or “doctor Lakes” as many here in Portland refer to him, lives in the secluded mountains of Northern New Hampshire. He is, in his own right, a mad genius. His intellect is so advanced that many find him to be harsh, socially awkward, self righteous or even egotistical. Growing up, one friend commented he felt my father could crush him with the power of his mind. (No wonder I didn’t date in high school!) Come to think of it, I never remember seeing my father be physically affectionate with my mother. There was always a stoic character about him. I do remember my dad burying his nose in books, and studying fractals for hours, meditating on their mathematical intricacies. To this day, when I talk with my father on the phone, I always end by saying “I love you dad!” knowing his response will be “Yep...Bye”
And yet somehow when it comes to Christmas, my father’s heart seems to melt. Don’t get me wrong. My father is not heartless. But he is not expressive with his softer emotions. And then Christmas time rolls around and some sort of secret cavern in the man’s psyche is unlocked, and suddenly there is song and cheer spilling into the atmosphere. In my mind, papa Lakes may be the earthly version of Father Christmas. As soon as October hits, this man begins playing Christmas music from his collection that includes hundreds, maybe even thousands of discs.
Before I left home in pursuit of my loftier dreams, Thanksgiving was the time when my dad and the three Lakey girls would head down to Finnigan’s Fine Firs to pick out our tree, drink cider or cocoa, and venture home to begin the lengthy decoration process. I don’t recall exactly when Xmastime spiraled as out of control as it did in the Lakey household. But I do know that somewhere along the line, my father felt it was a good idea to add more trees, each with their own theme, to our humble abode. And by adding more I mean to say we eventually ended up with 7 trees! (I do believe that means seven abortions a year according to your friend. Apparently I am going to Christmas tree hell!) But if you could see the love and detail placed into these trees! My dad’s favorite was the Santa Claus tree with red poinsetta lights. I always loved the entirely white tree with homemade origami chain links. There was the Victorian tree in the dinning room, and the tree with homemade ornaments from our younger years in the hall. In my room was the Nutcracker tree, Laurel’s room housed the Disney characters and in Heather’s room was the tree with earthly objects such as shells and acorns etc.
My dad has never been what you would call a “people person”. But come Christmas time, he loves to throw a party and show off his trees, trains, and perfectly placed Christmas décor around our house. It makes him absolutely gleeful. This man, who I spent much of my younger years fearing and cowering under, is also responsible for implanting the softness I feel in my own little lakey heart for the Christmas spirit. I am sad to say that for the first time in my 28 years I will not be going home for the Holidays. The knowledge of this brings a tear, or two or three to my eye. Like I said previously, this is an emotional topic for me. So if by some crazy chance anyone is still reading this commentary, go ahead and cry a tear with me for anything/anyone that you will miss this time of year! I know that I will miss the enchanted Christmas tree forest that our house transforms into, I will miss the trains and the music and the safety and love of my
family. Mostly I will miss seeing my father’s stoic eyes soften into that child like joy as he hums along to the Nutcracker, or as we sit down to watch One Magic Christmas. I realized that my father, like all of us, is a complex mix of a human being. How is it that in the most stoic of men lays the spirit of Christmas? There can never be a simple description or label for any one person. And thank god, or perhaps Father Christmas, or even Papa Lakes for that!
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