Most mornings, I’d be rooting for you to read this column bright and early, before you head out the door to face the day.
Today, I hope that’s not the case.
Today, Christmas Day, I hope you’re sitting down to read your daily newspaper much, much later, after sharing a wonderfully busy day with the rest of your family.
That, after all, is exactly what I’ll be doing.
I’m in my 40s now, but happily admit that I’m still a kid on Christmas Day. I don’t receive many toys as gifts nowadays, but I’ve learned that I’ll likely be able to play with a few (as long as I’m really, really good, and my nephews and niece are in good moods).
Either way, at some point during the day I’m sure my brother and sister and I will talk about the Christmases we enjoyed not so many years ago, when we received the toys, and every package held a new treasure.
Like the year I insisted that the present I’d open on Christmas Eve would be the odd-shaped box with the rounded edges.
In our family, gift-givers try to make sure that each present opened on Christmas Eve is an instant-gratification treat. Each person opens only one. No exceptions. The goal is to guide family members toward a present that they’ll not only enjoy, but be able to enjoy immediately.
To that end, we lobby on behalf of some presents, and against others.
And on that Christmas Eve, my mom tried to convince me that I’d be disappointed if I opened the box, because I wouldn’t be able to play with the gift inside.
I knew differently.
Yes, it was cold outside. And yes, it was dark.
But I knew what was in the box, and had a plan.
After peeling away the wrapping paper and unveiling my very own official ABA basketball (red, white and blue, of course), I started bundling up so I could put it to use.
This was pre-ESPN, of course, and the ABA and NBA hadn’t yet merged. None of us had ever seen video of the magician named Dr. J, but we knew he existed.
We knew he was good.
And I knew, with an official red, white and blue ABA basketball, I could begin to emulate the sky-walking star. That’s why I’d asked for the ball in the first place … and that’s why I’d opened it as soon as possible.
I headed out to the barn, flipped on the single bulb, and fired shots at the rim that hung above the hayloft.
Before long, the cold air had stolen my new ball’s bounce, and I headed back to the house. Years later, when the ball was retired, its bright hues had faded, its pebble-grain exterior had become slippery.
But the memory remains.
Another year, my brother and I did some advance scouting under the Christmas tree.
Glen, who was older, had learned that a careful snooper could actually peel a corner of wrapping paper away from a gift and peek underneath.
Note to Mom: I never learned how to do this, and never tried. It was Glen’s fault … and still is.
He picked up two similarly shaped boxes and did his sneaky best to ascertain their contents.
He was successful.
“I’ve got General Custer!” he told me. “You must have Johnny West!”
Custer and West were action figures — essentially G.I. Joes without the G.I., — and came with hats and gun belts and chaps and (if you were really lucky) a horse. Their arms and legs were jointed, and their heads turned from side to side. They were, in a word, cool.
Glen was sneaky. He was good at his craft. And he was right.
He got General Custer. I got Johnny West. And over the ensuing years, we spent countless hours making up wild west tales for our heroes to act out.
Eventually, Claude, our ill-tempered poodle, gnawed off most of the General’s fingers, which limited his ability to hold onto his pistol. I seem to recall that we made up a story or two to explain his disability during our frequent wild west sessions.
Last summer I found Johnny West again, in a box of toys at the family camp on Beech Hill Pond.
Time has been tough on him as well. His joints are creaky, and his bones, we learned, are brittle. During one especially tough battle on the high plains … or on the coffee table … his arm broke in half.
Considering the fact that he’d been tossed, trampled, buried and attacked by two generations of camp kids over the previous four decades, it wasn’t surprising.
But the memories remain.
So this morning — or, if you’re lucky, and are reading this much later, after you’ve enjoyed a full Christmas Day of fun — I’ve got just one more thing to say.
One holiday wish, for all of you. Young and old. Girls and boys.
I hope you were able to make some memories today. For you. And for all of your family members.
Merry Christmas.
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