Holiday retrospection taken from years of experience
Cal 1 me sappy, cal I me sentimental,
call me a sucker for slick marketing
mavens, I just can’t help it, I love
Christmas.
So I was flattered when one of the
news editors asked me to do a holiday
column for this supplement.
Great, I thought. The paper finally
appreciates my sagacious wnting skills,
my proficiency as a pundit, my witti
cism, my razor-sharp tongue, my cut
ting-edge style...
“We want you to write a piece
about how Christmas has changed over
the years,” he continued.
... my age.
The smile froze on my face —
along with the crow’s-feet. My ego
deflated and my mind faced reality:
The editors want you because you’re
OLD, not because you can write, but
because you’re the OLDEST writer
they’ve got.
I
They want you because you can
remember Andy Williams crooning,
“Sleigh bells ring, are ya’ listening,”
the original Easy-Bake Oven and life
before video games.
They want you because you’re from
an era that predates color photogra
phy, camcorders, compact discs and
Cabbage Patch dolls.
They’re just jealous, I reasoned,
because you got to experience the first
wave of Troll dolls, Lite Britc, Mys
tery Date and Crcepie Crawlers, and
all they got were cartoon show spinoff
dolls like Rainbow Brite and the
Smurfs. They can't stand the fact that
you were a first-grader when Twister
nit the streets in 1966and they weren’t
even bom yet. They’re envious of that
mood ring Santa left in your stocking
in 1973. (Sec, nothing has really
changed: They had plastic, gimmicky,
pseudo-toys in my day, too.)
Cindy
Lange
KubTck
They want you because in vour
youth, grandmothers actually did don
aprons and spend half of December
makingpeppemuts, fudge, peanut brit
tle and25-coursc holiday dinners.
My editor smiled up at me — a
wrinkle-free smirk, without the stress
lines that come from deciding whether
to buy a real or artificial tree, whether
it's sexist to purchase a Barbie doll for
my daughter and Super Soakers for my
sons, and whether my three little ones
should be told the truth about Santa
Claus. (And the Easter Bunny, the
-1
tooth fairy and Newt “Gingrinch ...”)
Once I was home I sifted through
old photo albums for inspiration.
There I was in 1962, crying on
Santa’s lap—nothingnew here. Forc
ing toddlers onto the belly of an obese,
bearded, red-suited stranger is a time
honored American tradition.
1967 found me dressed to the nines
in blue velvet and black patent leather
standing in front of my grandparents’
silver-flocked tree. Thank goodness
some things have changed.
By 1972things were decidedly mon,
casual, even hip — and the photos
were in color. Even the wrapping pa
per was chartreuse and fuchsia. Ami
although people were stil 1 making fruit
cake, fewer were actually eating it.
A decade later the camera caught
me posing proudly with my firstborn.
Two years later I had his sister in tow,
and another three years found baby
I
brother Joseph captured by the
Instamatic. Talk about change.
It’s Christmas Eve, and I am sur
rounded by familiar faces and filled
with wonder, anticipation and long
ing. Longing for the company of those
whose faces are no longer present at
my Christmas table. Anticipating the
dreaded ritual of opening January’s
Visa bill. Wondering if the feelings of
peace and goodwillcan remain past
the last refrain of “Silent Night” and
into the coming year. Longing for a
world made whole — as cliche as it
may sound. (Told you I was sappy.)
It happens every year.
Some things never change.
Merry Christmas.
Laage-KaMck l« a sealer aews-edltorlal
aad sociology major aad a Dally Ntbraskaa
colama 1st
-1
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