'twas the night before Christmas

And the bastard still hasn't returned my shovel!

And yet I am touched by the Christmas Spirit, ready to forgive if not forget, prepared to trudge forth down my inadequately-cleared sidewalk and toss my good tidings to the world.

Aside from that, the sun shines feebly on the frozen tundra of Minnesota. More snow is forecast, but the temperatures should be more reasonable. Or, rather, still absurd but drifting in reason's general direction. Perhaps the children are up for a romp in the snow, down the hills of the park four to twelve blocks away (depends on which hills you choose and how you count). Or perhaps they will be set upon the mountain of laundry instead, sorting the wicked from the darks, the blessed from the whites. Or vice versa, depending on your view of the color spectrum.

Big plans await. Dinner at the in-laws, followed by an early Christmas Eve service, followed by a movie back home with the children and sick wife, who valiantly fights her illness from the upstairs bed even as I type. We were hoping for A Christmas Carol, with The Flim Flam Man as Scrooge, but that was on last night. The kids want to watch National Treasure, hardly an adequate representative of the Christmas movie genre, but certainly better than Scarface or A Nightmare on Elm Street or whatever else is being offered by the clueless cable networks. The oldest has proclaimed A Christmas Story to be "too weird." I think it's the lamp and the beebee in the eye that has led her to this conclusion. I also think it's too bad she feels that way.

Once upon a time, many years ago, the members of my family (meaning my very first family) would bundle up against the bone-chilling cold and march through the squeaking snow to a midnight service five blocks away. My father would join us for one of his rare trips to church. It was also the one time of year I would feel comfortable abandoning the halfhearted lip-synching that was my usual custom and actually raise my voice in song. Something to do with knowing the tunes. Or thinking I did anyhow. After five hours or so, brevity never being an Episcopalian virtue, the lights would go down and candles would be lit, we would sing Silent Night and at last be sent off into the even colder night, squeaking our way down the street to awaiting beds.

It's been a lifetime since then. What I wouldn't give for just one more night of listening, from my warm bed, to the voices and other noises of my parents below, to the creak of the steps (and the bones) as they came up the stairs. Or for one more morning of waking up to Christmas with the family and beloved pets, the baffling choices for presents and a fireplace with an actual fire, complete with hanging stockings! Just to experience Christmas, one more time, as a child.

I really don't care about that shovel. I just don't.