How to Wean Kids from Santa

Christmas time brings back memories of my childhood and that of my children; memories of decorated   trees, real trees adorned with real candles. I can even smell the fragrance of Christmas once again: bees’ wax and the delicious aroma of baking cookies. Most exciting for me was the secrecy that surrounded our German Christmas tradition. We celebrated on Christmas Eve. The living room was locked all day while the tree was put up and decorated by my mother.  I wasn’t allowed to watch. I was an only child and the excitement almost killed me every year. From time to time, I detected conspicuous noises from behind the closed door─ that only added to the wonder of it all. Because somehow and sometime during the evening, Santa Claus would manage to arrive surreptitiously.

Since we didn’t have a chimney, I wondered at an early age how the big man would sneak into the flat. So I kept an eager eye on the comings and goings at that door. My parents mastered the art of hide and seek by pretending my father had to go out to buy some indispensible item for the meal; curiously, when it was about to fall dark. It was me to accompany him in the car because Mother needed to prepare dinner. The meal always consisted of fillet steaks and mushrooms in my house, accompanied by good German fried potatoes, and followed by some yummy chocolate pudding.  

We drove through town for about half an hour; surprisingly we never bought anything.  Well, the shops weren’t even open at that time. But as a little girl I didn’t know that. Store opening hours dictated that all the shops closed by 1 o’clock p.m. for the duration of Christmas (from 24-26 December). Yes, like many European countries, Germany has two full days of Christmas in addition to the big gift giving celebration on Christmas Eve.  

I remember the crucial Christmas after I had just turned five. My big wish was a bike. While we cruised through my home town I saw several Santa Clauses in the streets in the dusk, laden with heavy sacks over their shoulders.

“Will Santa make it to our house in time if he is here, so far away from our street?” I asked my father anxiously.

“He always does”, my father answered laconically.

Something was still bugging me. “How come there is more than one out and about?”

My father didn’t hesitate with his answer. He was prepared for this question that had to surface one day.

“It’s impossible for one old man to visit all the children in the world. Therefore he needs many helpers. Think about it.”

I mulled things over, slouched in my seat. The penny eventually dropped. By the time we arrived, my excitement had waned. But there it was, my gleaming new orange-red colored bike under the sparkling tree! What a sight! “And you are his helpers too!” I exclaimed.

“Yes”, my parents admitted it. “Besides, how could one man afford all these gifts for all the children in the world?”

When I had children of my own, I anticipated their question and wanted to give them a similar answer. However, I was in for a surprise. Miriam was five and Christian almost three the year it happened. Being in kindergarten and talking to the other children, Miriam had figured out that parents were involved in the big mystery that surrounded Christmas. She approached me and suggested playing Santa Claus for her little brother. “I know he still believes in him, which, of course, I don’t, being so much older.”

When it started to get dark, she donned her red bathrobe that had a hoodie and put on her red wellington boots. Her father gave her the burlap sack he kept for harvesting potatoes. Kitted out like that, Miriam set off to walk through the garden.  “Make sure he sees me!”

Christian was upstairs tidying up his room ─ a quintessential task for a good child to make Santa Claus come to his house. I looked out of the window ─ as if by chance. “Chris, quick, quick, come here! I don’t believe it! Look who is there!” And there he was walking below the window with the sack over his shoulder, Santa Claus!

Miriam kept a smug face all evening and guarded her secret so that Christian could believe for a little longer. His face was beaming with delight having seen Santa and he proudly told everyone for days.

  

Siggy Buckley

Who is Afraid of Christmas?

Wishing you an inclusive Christmas season.

You can wish me a Merry Christmas, and I won’t be offended.

Every year at this time, we hear the complaints from all sides about the secularization of the season when Christians traditionally celebrate the birth of their Saviour. There are those who complain that saying “Merry Christmas” excludes those are not Christian, something our pluralistic, multicultural society rejects. So public areas like city parks and schools cannot put up “Christmas” displays or anything about the Christian celebration in particular.

Image Courtesy: www.vykort.com

Some Christian groups and individuals then complain that this takes the religious meaning out of the season. This usually gets conflated with the complaint about the commercialization of the season.

Personally, I like to celebrate all of it.

Many people have pointed out how many cultures and religions use lights at this, the time of year when the nights are longest: Christians, Jews, neo-Pagans, Wiccans, the list goes on.

And it’s useless to whine about the commercial, secular celebrations. I can’t help but complain about the reruns of lame Christmas-themed movies and bad, really, really bad Christmas — or winter-themed songs on the radio. How many musicians have hacked through a version of Jingle Bells and Sleigh Ride? How much are we expected to endure?

Image Courtesy: acelebrationofwomen.org

But my whining hasn’t had an impact. So we might as well enjoy what we can. It’s going to happen whether we like it or not.

Let’s look at it this way: we all like to celebrate. What difference does it make why? We live in a multicultural, plural world. Rather than argue with each other over what to call the celebration and how to celebrate it, let’s celebrate everything.

So, put up your Christmas decorations. I have no problem with seeing a Nativity scene beside a Yule tree and a Festivus pole. Wish me a Happy Hanukah. If it’s the right time of year, say Happy Eid.

I’ll take it, and same back to you.

*

Happy Yule

Happy Sadeh

Happy Kwanzaa

Merry Christmas

Happy Hanukkah

Happy Saturnalia

Happy Diwali (a little late)

Happy Eid (whenever that happens)

Have a happy season, whatever it is, and a very good new year.

Scott Bury

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Scott Bury is a journalist, editor, and writer living in Ottawa, Canada. His articles have been published in newspapers and magazines in Canada, the US, UK and Australia, including Macworld, the Ottawa Citizen, the Financial Post, Marketing, Canadian Printer, Applied Arts, PEM, Workplace, Advanced Manufacturing and others.

Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, he grew up in Thunder Bay, Ontario. He holds a BA from Carleton University's School of Journalism. He has two sons, an orange cat and a loving wife who puts up with a lot.

He is a recipient of Maclean Hunter's Top 6 Award and a member of a team that won a Neal Award for business reporting.

The Written Word published his first novel, The Bones of the Earth, in 2011. His first published fiction was a short story, Sam, the Strawb Part, the proceeds of which are donated to an autism charity. 

In 2013, the Written Word published his second novel, One Shade of Red, a spoof of the inexplicable bestseller that is mostly made of emails. 

His latest book is Army of Worn Soles, a memoir in novel format that tells the true story of the author's father in law, drafted into the Red Army in 1941. He is now working on a sequel.

Christmas Together

It is snowing again as I back the car out of the garage for one final trip to the store. I could have sworn the package said four D-cell batteries, not eight. One lonely strand of battery operated lights to adorn an eighteen-inch Christmas tree and tiny plastic ornaments will fill the last few inches of a tightly packed box. I find it difficult to pack and ship "Christmas" to a Soldier deployed in active combat, especially when that Soldier happens to be my son, the only child I have.

My little boy, who once wore red Dr. Denton pajamas with feet, will proudly
dress in Desert Camouflage and combat boots this Christmas. My son
Tanner will flush his eyes with Visine in 100-degree temperatures instead
of feeling snowflakes falling gently on his face. Military cuisine mixed with
desert sand will be his dinner, consumed while sitting on the floor of a tent,
in place of his normal holiday meal at home surrounded by family and
friends. Bombs and bullets will replace the revelry of Christmas carols.
For 25 years, Tanner and I have created and shared our own
traditions. As a child, my son was allowed one "early" present on the
afternoon of Christmas Eve…one that would occupy him while I finished
cooking and setting the dinner table.

I wrap that special present this year, its label clearly stating, "Early
Christmas Gift," and place it in the box on top, separated by paper. I can see
the smile on his face when he realizes that although a world apart, our
tradition will continue.

I manage to include a small canned ham, pop-top cans of vegetables,
potatoes, and fruit. There are candy canes and homemade Christmas
cookies, gently set in tin containers surrounded by bubble wrap. Hidden
inside brightly colored paper, is a CD player with Christmas music and a
month’s supply of AA batteries. I add a brand new calendar, allowing him to
mark the days until his return. What am I forgetting?

Ripping open boxes of decorations from years gone by, I finally find his
miniature stocking, a small snow globe, and the most important piece of
tradition: the matching snowman candle holders and tapers. Both lit with
one match, our candles have cast a warm glow on the table every year.
These symbols will separate for the first time…one making its solitary
journey to brighten the darkest Christmas. Gathering the remnants of happier times, I gingerly place this candle among Tanner’s holiday cheer, along with the stocking and globe.

"My son, I am striving to provide you with the best Christmas I possibly
can. I wish I knew how to wrap my heart, my love, and send it nestled
among the tissue paper. Do you recognize the significance of each item I have sent? Can you see past the contents of this box, Tanner? Are you able to feel the Christmas spirit, tucked inside and sealed tightly with packing tape? Can you feel me holding you as I whisper softly, ‘Merry Christmas, my son?’ I am there with you. We both know that I am. Miles may separate us, but nothing can keep us apart at Christmas."

It is now 8:00 a.m. in Connecticut on the morning of Christmas Eve, making
it 4:00 pm in Iraq. I picture a Soldier on his bunk, opening a corrugated box
containing a cache of love and prayers, folded delicately among layers of
papers. My tears blend with a slow smile as I wonder if my son actually waited until 4:00 pm to open his early present. I think not, and my imagination creates a cascading slideshow of images … ones that find me alternating between tears and laughter, while I visualize Tanner’s reaction to each carefully chosen item.

Sitting in a tent in the desert my son opens "Christmas" with a smile,
inter-fused with sorrow and a longing for home. As he lights his candle, he
daydreams…forming his own picture show…of me packing the car with gifts
for our family, along with my contributions to the evening meal at my
sister’s house. His eyes close as he forces the heat and sand to restructure
itself to winter’s chill and swirling snowflakes.

I sit at a bare table, placing my lone candle in its center. As I strike the
match, I feel the presence of my son…traveling within the glow of his
candle, to be by my side this Christmas Eve. My eyes close, holding the image of my little boy in his red Dr. Dentons.

Arlene R. O’Neil

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