So the Christmas Eve feast is complete and the stockings are hung by the chimney with some amount of care.
The air is still, the only sound, chatter from the stars, which leaves me here, alone, at 1 AM, on a more than mild, night before Christmas, scanning the skies, with the hope that something might appear, maybe even Santa Claus...even if it’s only the one I still conjure in my head.
Just something I like to do on early Christmas mornings, digging up magic that just for a moment, once again, I can believe; like the kid I once was, believed.
When I was that kid, the excitement of Christmas morning was overwhelming.
I mean, really...all one had to do was write up a list of things I...I mean one...wanted and this fat old guy named Santa would deliver them under my...I mean...your tree.
Who could make something like that up?
It had to be true! There was no other explanation!
I can't say I have many memories of my first Christmas since I was just sneaking up on 9 months old and the most fascinating thing in my life back them was the third toe on my left foot.
What? It was a pretty cool toe.
And not much happened my second Christmas, either, but I found eating wrapping paper to be highly addictive.
My third Christmas also didn’t go as planned since my language skills left something to be desired. While I thought I was asking for a cowboy hat and a fire truck, Santa apparently heard pajamas and a red pair of shoes.
By my fourth Christmas I was able to verbalize somewhat better, so when I asked for a giraffe and an elephant, I was very confused when Santa brought me more pajamas and yet a another pair of shoes—this time blue—but, lo and behold, also delivered the cowboy hat...finally.
I guessed it was a process.
By my fifth Christmas I still couldn’t write, but I could dictate my list to my friend Pami, across the street, who diligently recorded my wishes, but then passed the list over to her older sister Wendi, who decided to make some additions, which led to some confusion on Christmas morning when I received a Barbie Doll along with a complete line of Barbie accessories and an Easy Bake Oven...but still no sign of the fire truck.
By my sixth Christmas I could scratch out a pretty legible list, all on my own, so I didn’t have to worry about any more Barbie clothes...although I admit, I was curious about the new Malibu collection.
And on it went from there, until the day I realized there was actually no real Santa pounding out fire trucks and cowboy hats in his little workshop up north, which, as you might imagine, kind of put a damper on that whole Christmas magic thing.
And to be honest, while in that neophyte state of mind, I did enjoy the “getting”, the real thrill of Christmas was the idea that some kind of magic would somehow take place in my very own house between the time my eyes finally closed on Christmas Eve and eagerly re-opened, early Christmas morning.
So here I sit, again, on an early Christmas morn, scanning the skies, conjuring the magic that now, I’m happy to say, comes more in the “giving” than the “getting”.
And somewhere out there, up amongst the chattering stars and moon so full, I do believe I hear the slightest whisper of sleigh bells and a jolly HO HO HO....
It could be...you just never know...you can’t really tell.
It’s Christmas, a day when anything is possible.
Who knows....I might even get that fire truck....
Hold on...was that another Ho Ho Ho?
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