Yule Get it One Day

Rows of colored lights

strung across frosty winter

windows, wreaths of pine

hung on doors, stockings

placed over family hearths,

and a family huddled under

a colorful blanket, sipping

hot coco in front of a roaring

yule fire.

In the background of this

scene, Bing Crosby gently

croons about being home for

the holidays and counting blessings

instead of sheep, the fire crackles,

the flames shimmering off the

bright wrapping paper of gifts

under a festive fir tree.

A curious satisfaction rests on each

family member’s face as they sit quietly

enjoying the coziness of the holiday…

And this is where my holiday spirit

breaks down. In each version of this

poem or story, the roof caves in on this

sweet, contented family, crushing them or

the fire gets out of control in the fireplace

and the house explodes, and Christmas time

is ruined for years to come.

The son, a survivor, winds up in a

Chinese prison, the crippled daughter,

spends the rest of her life clutching a

burned dolly as she stares out the

window of some hidden away mental

hospital.

I cannot seem to just write a happy scene

without dropping Stephen King’s foot on it

all. It’s probably my own problems with this

holiday season. A time that should be spent

on family and peace and joy, that seems to

forsake the hardships, troubles and ills of the world.

There’s something quixotic

and diametrically opposing about

Christmas Time. On one hand,

it is a gentle time to embrace loved

ones and share in each other’s life,

on the other hand, it’s a cruel knife

jabbed into Santa’s back as he delivers

presents to refugees in some forgotten

back-water camp.

My confusion is based in the commercialism

of the holidays, Catholic indoctrination and

Hollywood mythology, would be my guess.

I want there to be peace and love and joy all

over the whole world, but I’m practical and

a realist and I know that even on Christmas day

people will die, some violently I’m sure.

My conscience will not be assuaged with

charity work though. It hardly seems like enough,

or is it all that we can do? It seems Sisyphean to

roll up the sleeves one day a year and expect the

hardships and troubles of the downtrodden to be cured

with a little Christmas cheer.

So maybe that’s why I wish the roof would collapse

on that idyllic family scene. Or maybe, by staring into

the roaring flames of a comforting fire while sipping

coco, I can ignore the troubles of the world. Maybe that’s

what Christmas is really about now?

Well, it’s still a few weeks away. I’ve got time

to figure it out I suppose.

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.