A 1970s Boy's Ode to Christmas

I’m ten years old and I’m sprawled out on my back under a tree; I’m happy, fascinated, and in a state of anticipation.

No, I wasn’t hurt, perhaps having fallen out of a tree, and no one has drawn a chalk line around me yet.

Rather, it was Christmas time, and I was under our Christmas tree, getting a dazzling vantage point of twinkling lights, glass bulbs, falling needles, and so much tinsel, that you could probably take the tree to a metal recycler. Wrapped presents surrounded me, and yes, more than once I tried to peek by gently unpeeling the Scotch tape of the wrapping, and usually making a tell-tale tear.

Ah, but how glorious it was; the anticipation, the beautifully decorated tree, the TV specials, like 𝘈 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴, or the assortment of Rankin-Bass stop-motion films. There was no on-demand TV then, no videotapes, DVDs - nothing; you had to wait for when it was on, anxiously searching 𝘛𝘝 𝘎𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦 or 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘕𝘦𝘸𝘴 Sunday paper. If you missed it, tough, you’d have to wait until next year.

Soon after receiving it, I had circled toys in the Sears Christmas catalog, a book more important to humanity than the Bible it seemed at the time, and it was done with the zeal of a desperate man picking lottery numbers, and wondering which, if any, would find their way to the very spot I was at now. I swear I circled so much stuff, the catalog was measurably heavier with ink. Ogdensburg did have an appreciable amount of stores to preview the stuff - 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴, but not a lot more.

Then came Christmas Eve, the point in the year around which the whole kid year circled, and my body was vibrating from the anticipation of what was to come. Relatives would come over, drinks served, and we served plenty of foods you’d only find at this time of year, like mom’s Swedish meatballs, and ribbon candy that no one would eat. Adult beverages took their toll on the adults, while soda would whip us young ‘uns into a frenzy.

After a few hours, I would find myself mentally willing for them all to go home so I could get to bed and try to sleep as if I were a protege of 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘮𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘒𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯. As they filed out, we would give them their coats off Ma’s bed, piled up a few feet high, and off they’d go into the cold. Now for phase 2…

We would open the wrapped presents, in a frenzy of tearing paper and joyous shouts, giving the shredded wrapping paper to my younger nephew David to burn in the fireplace, training him to enjoy his likely future as an arsonist, throwing the paper in and watching it burst into flame, reticent of the great and powerful Oz when he was angered by Dorothy and company. Ma would admonish us though to save the bows! I swear, some of those bows had been around since the Victorian age, but save them we did. On they would live until the next Christmas, albeit crushed (𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘰𝘹𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮).

Then it was getting late, and off to bed we were sent, but sleep was very fleeting that nigh; to think a man was about to deliver all kinds of materialistic joy to my house, sneaking in at that! Thinking about it now, it was essentially a home robbery in reverse. Many times, I’d be up after Ma had just gone to bed, to scan the darkness for what the jolly old man had left us. Santa might wrap presents for other homes, but not us, no, we enjoyed the full visual overload of our haul in one glance when we entered the living room! While I satisfied my urge to see what was brought, I now wanted to play with it! Oh, what a one-two punch!

Christmas morning, early as it was, was spent playing, awash in a toy store in my own living room - Tonka trucks, slot car tracks, puzzles, emptied-out stockings - and then it was off to visit all the relatives. I could take one favorite toy with me as we spent most of the day hopping from house to house, seeing what my cousins got, reciting what I received, and eating all the snacks we could stand; 𝘙𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘭 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 and 𝘏𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘍𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 would sustain me that day.

  After all those visits, Ma drove us back in her Cadillac Sedan de Ville, a real land yacht, and when it would snow at night, she would click on the brights, and all of sudden you felt as though you were going through a star field in space, at light speed. Engelbert Humperdinck would be crooning out “𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘔𝘦” on her 8 track, the cold in the car keeping me awake after what seemed like an 18-hour day of crazed unbridled avarice, an orgy of carbohydrate-rich foods, and being among more people than the Pope on Easter.

Man, Christmas was a ball back then.