All About (Christmas) Eve
I always enjoyed the trappings of Christmas growing up. Except for an early 1960s aluminum tree detour (soon abandoned), we’d buy a fragrant evergreen from a local lot and spend hours putting it up and decorating it. After my dad left in the early ‘70s and my brother Mario tired of the role, I became Chief Tree Technician. I’d procure a choice specimen, get it back to the house, saw off a few inches of sapped-over trunk, manhandle the tree into an uncooperative stand, painstakingly make adjustments until all was bolt upright, then add water and an aspirin (my mother claimed it’d help the tree’s “shock”). When done, I’d bring all the decorations down from the attic via a rickety set of folding steps and check every last bulb on multiple strands. With all dead soldiers swapped out, I’d layer the lights (steady color nearest the trunk, flashing color further out and NO fucking clear bulbs ever), then encircle the tree with gold garland, making sure the drape was just right. My mom and any interested siblings would help hang a hundred ornaments but in later years I worked entirely alone, even setting out Nana’s handmade Nativity scene myself. “The Reason for the Season” never occurred to me until the final touch when I’d place a tiny ceramic figure of LBJ (Little Baby Jesus) in his spot in the manger. Then I’d ponder my name. Christopher. It means “Bearing Christ”. St. Christopher, the martyr who supposedly carried the Christ child (among others) across a swollen river and subsequently pissed off the king by converting thousands to Christianity (including two temptresses, sent to persuade him to help eradicate Christians), getting beheaded for his efforts. Now he’s the widely popular patron saint of travelers and supposedly protects against sudden death. He also guards against lightning and pestilence and holds (according to Wikipedia) “...patronage for archers: bachelors; boatmen; soldiers; bookbinders; epilepsy; floods; fruit dealers; fullers; gardeners; a holy death; mariners; market carriers; motorists and drivers; sailors; storms; surfers; toothache; mountaineering and transportation workers.” I had no idea. And I’m named after him.
Some people are not happy with their names (Jim McGuinn, anyone?) but I’m OK with Chris. When the Nihilistics got underway and we decided “No last names!” on the back of our first record, I became “Chris T.” through simple expediency. But it made me think about Christ in a way I hadn’t since shivering in Saturday morning (when I SHOULD’VE been watching cartoons!) Catechism School. Unfortunately, I’ve never had much luck believing in Supernatural Jesus… and this is a “Buy the premise, buy the flick” deal: if you can’t accept the Resurrection, the whole movie collapses (personally, I suspect Jesus had a twin brother or those early disciples were tripping balls on ergot of rye). For me, Natural Jesus is good enough. He said some truly important things–“Love they neighbor” and all that bullshit–and whether or not he was God’s kid doesn’t enter into it. You can appreciate the teachings of Christ without buying into the virgin birth and Zombie Jesus. I also find the whole concept of “pie-in-the-sky-by-and-by” deeply troubling. I’m not willing to gamble on heaven. so let’s get our rewards here on earth while we can. Friendship, good health, companionship, being of use to the community and love: that’s what I strive for. Except at Christmas. Then I want stuff.
Our gift-giving always occurred Christmas Eve. I couldn’t understand families that would wait until Christmas morning (who wants to wake up early and deal with parceling out presents?). We’d make a party of it, gathering in our living room and designating one person to fish the packages out from under the tree, read the recipient’s name off the tag and either carry the gift to them or hand it over if they could get to you. Gift-distribution took several hours because my mother insisted each person get their moment to unwrap the present, open the box, pull the item out and show it off while we made comments. Then someone would gather up the hastily-shredded gift-wrap. When I was handing out presents I took great pride in maintaining an equitable distribution. I’d work methodically, make sure every round included each person in attendance. Soft crappy holiday music would play in the background and we’d all look much better under forgiving Christmas lights. Everything took on a warm glow, and not the one brought on by my customary imbibing of illicit booze proffered by a bombed relative (or sipped on the sly). We made the most of Christmas Eve, staying up until Midnight then tucking our gifts back in their boxes and shoving them under the tree. Then we’d all get to sleep in Christmas morning.
Thank Jesus for that.
Merry Christmas, fuckers!