When I was six
years old, I was asked by my parents to do an imitation of President John F.
Kennedy in front of the Christmas tree for their friends, many of whom had been
drinking cocktails. I had a little mop of brown hair like the president's, and
I could approximate his Boston accent. So I stood in front of the tree, wearing
my Dr. Dentons, and piped, "Ahsk not what your country can do for you, ahsk
what you can do for your country," and "Let me . . .
ah . . . say this about that." Everyone roared with delight. For
months afterward I was known as "Little JFK" around the house.
That's about the
cutest Christmas anecdote I can come up with. I have four brothers and sisters
but I didn't notice any cute stuff they did at Christmas. I was too busy
rooting around the bottom of the tree like a piglet looking for my presents. I
examined each one carefully, estimating value. It was not very attractive. I
should have been caroling. I should have been singing "The Little Drummer Boy"
at the school assembly. But I wasn't.
I don't feel
guilty about it. Most of the kids I knew weren't caroling either. It's not that
I wouldn't have caroled if asked; I just didn't want to be considered a pill by
volunteering. Christmas music is beautiful, but I decided to let Bing and
Johnny Mathis do it. I did the JFK shtick, didn't I?
I did have to
dance around the elementary school gym to the "Sleigh Bells" song. We children
put our arms around one another and danced at the Christmas assembly. I
pretended to be uncoordinated so they'd put me in the clodhopper line at the
back of the gym where no one could see me. Sleigh bell dancing was undignified,
a cousin to the square dance. Of course once the line got moving I began to
enjoy it. And I was dancing with those clumsy oafs who stumbled all over
themselves, when I could have been showcased with the graceful kids! I learned
a valuable lesson, though it didn't really hold. I still act dumb to get out of
stuff.
But to me
Christmas has always primarily meant presents. As a little boy I secretly felt
it was far, far better to receive than to give. It's terrible and it's
shameful. Even today, when I Christmas shop, I'm thinking about what I want. I
give it much more thought than what my family and friends might enjoy. I know
where this attitude will land me-in a lonely efficiency apartment, ignored,
despised, with a malfunctioning 13-inch black-and-white TV my only friend.
That's what happens to Christmas cruds.
And it happens
to Christmas snoops. I was searching the attic for unwrapped presents just
before Christmas one year and I found one clearly meant for me. It was a Mr. Ed board game in which the talking
horse had to reach some goal or destination, though I can't remember what. I
told our babysitter Stella that I saw it, and she gave me a tongue lashing:
"Now you won't be surprised on Christmas morning. I hope you're happy. Your
parents went to a lot of trouble getting you that game." What a sneaky little
turd! This was one of the worst Christmas memories of my childhood, which,
looking back on it, wasn't exactly Dickensian but was dramatic in its own way.
I think of
treasured gifts on Christmas Day: a toy Sinclair multi-level gas station with
little cars you rolled up and down the ramps. An Aurora racing car set. A
Mattel Vac-U-Form, with which you could make smelly plastic toys that were
non-toxic (as I didn't die after chewing on them.) A Danny O'Day ventriloquist
dummy. The soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz,
an incredibly beloved present. "If I were King of the Forrrrest!" The most
asked-for present throughout elementary school: a chemistry set. Some of these
science kits even included a dead frog to dissect. The immortal Lionel train.
Books, records, bills, puzzles, games, models, balls, mitts, bikes.
Oh, we were
lucky.
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