Christmas was a magical time in my childhood house growing up, before adolescence. The magical Christmas I'm thinking of when we were all together was in 1980.
I had yet to lay my hands on an Atari 2600, but I had spent the year poring over the BEST Catalog selection of battery-operated electronic games. Galaxy II was the ultimate prize, an lcd display of bright blue stars, colorful spaceships, lasers and clunky explosions.
I knew that gift was under the tree despite the steep $40 price tag.
The night before Christmas I could not sleep at all. Knowing the Christmas tree in the living room was brightly lit and flowing with gifts. I crept down the hall in the darkness, to the living room and sat myself on the carpet next to the tree. I wanted to somehow climb into the tree, just be totally in that world of pine needles and branches and lights and delicate hanging ornaments and tinsel and mysteries. Battery-operated electronic heaven was under there and it would be mine that morning.
No family Christmas would ever measure up to that one spent at home, together, the 4 of us, then off to grandma's house whining about the toys left behind until tomorrow. Every year following marked a measure of decay. A running toll of psychotic breaks, divorces, moves and then deaths.
I now live with my wife and 2 cats in our own happy home. Every year we get a tree, despite our combined unease with the season. It helps ground us. It reminds us of good times long ago but also stands to signify our bond, to each other, our pets, our families and our circle of friends
