Mike
Ball
Read Mike's bio and previous columns here
December 3, 2007
Glowing Plastic
Reindeer: The True Meaning of Christmas
You know, I’m willing to bet that there’s some guy in your neighborhood
whose roof is literally sagging under the weight of a giant Santa, a
small herd of reindeer, and a life-sized nativity scene – complete with
“lowing” cattle, a couple of shepherds who look pretty nervous to be
stapled to those roof shingles, a trio of really strung-out Magi and a
fiberglass Holy Family with the infant Messiah lit up by a 450-watt
halogen bulb stuck right up his manger.
The guy who owns this house is my personal hero – I love
Christmas decorations!
Yes, I called them Christmas decorations, not “Holiday
Decorations,” or any other godless secular nonsense. You see, I have a
deep reverence for the collection of mostly Druid, Viking and Pagan
traditions that today form the Hallmark® of this holiest of all seasons.
As the Apostle Paul (probably) said, “Yea, verily shall we cometh
together and praise His coming with feasting and rejoicing and Midnight
Madness Sales, for the angels of the Lord did proclaim tidings of great
comfort and seasonal retail activity. Though the actual birth our Savior
was, if I recalleth correctly, sometime in March, or maybe April – no,
it was in March I’m pretty sure – remembereth that one time we didst
throw him a party and he didst act all embarrassed and even a little
vengeful about it? Well, I remember that it was still cold out, because,
yea, was I still wearing my winter cloak, so it must have been March.
Anyway, verily shall we actually celebrate in December because otherwise
our rejoicing wouldst crowdeth Easter merchandising, plus what the
hecketh, thou already havest thy winter solstice parties that we couldst
piggyback on . . .” Paul’s Letter to the Petersons, 6:23.
One big reason I love Christmas decorations is that without them, this
time of year is just so incredibly dark. December 21 is
officially the shortest day of the year, giving us, if my figures are
correct, about eleven minutes of actual daylight. Admittedly a twinkle
light doesn’t throw off a whole lot of candle power, but cover the
trees, bushes, and the front of a three-bedroom split-level with them,
and just walking by you could get yourself a pretty good twinkle tan.
I’m also crazy about the inflatables that have started showing up in the
last few years. Show me a yard jammed fence-to-shed with giant vinyl
elves and snowmen, and I’ll show you somebody who’s facing the new year
looking at a major cash-back bonus on his Discover card.
Of course, my favorite holiday tradition of all is the Christmas tree.
No matter what church’s collection basket you prefer to drop your IOUs
into, there really is something sacred about dragging a plastic blue
spruce into the living room then decorating it with Gordian wads of
lights and ornaments that have been packed away in the attic in
dog-eared cardboard boxes held together with duct tape and marked “XMAS”
in festive green magic marker. Every year of the 30 years we’ve been
married, my wife and I have talked about trashing all the old Christmas
junk and doing a trendy designer tree with all new color-coordinated
lights and ornaments.
And then I spot the ragged miniature stocking with my name on it that my
mother made for me when I was about four.
And the glass ornaments that my father loved when he was alive, so
scratched and faded that you can no longer tell what the original color
was, but each one has one part that is not all that bad, so I always
turn the little tin collars that hold the hooks so the
not-all-that-bad-parts show.
And the tattered little elves knitted over pipe cleaners, holding tiny
pipe cleaner candy canes that my wife found in some craft shop years
before we met. And the dozens of “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments that
I still insist on using every year since I don’t have any that say,
“Baby’s Twenty-Fourth Christmas.”
And the little brass cash register I got for my wife when she opened her
store, and the little attaché case she got for me when I started wearing
a suit to work, and the little ceramic hockey player skating on a
Wheaties box that Santa brought for our son when he made his first
travel team.
Ok, so maybe we don’t have a 50-foot inflatable camel loaded with bags
of glow-in-the-dark myrrh staked out by the mailbox. And I guess we’re
just too cheap to spring for the pre-programmed Star of Bethlehem Laser
Light Show In-A-Box. But every year all the old junk that we do have
comes out of the boxes and goes up on the tree, and it always seems to
look pretty good to us.
Because it’s our junk.
Copyright © 2007,
Michael Ball.
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