POOR TOM'S ALMANAC:
Memories of a Christmas Past

By Tom Vartabedian

Christmas is a tree full of lights,
A heart full of joy …
A pocket empty of money.
It’s brandy eggnogs, rye highballs
And one awful headache.
It’s a day for being nice to everybody
And wondering why people can’t be
That way the rest of the year.
—Anonymous

Growing up, Christmas was always cheerful, yet frugal.

When I was 10, I prayed hard for snow and it came on Christmas Eve after dark. I scratched a hole in the frost that had gathered on the window and peered out at the white silence.

The streetlights were iridescent halos and the rooftops across the street seemingly had ermine wraps. Some of the flakes clung to the window like lace placemats.

I enjoyed the smell of the boughs on the tree. The colors of the ornaments caught the light in the morning and sent spangled kisses across the room with rainbow colors.

The kitchen was hot and busy before and after church. My father used a swift whetstone on the carving knife. He stood at the dining room table anxious to slice diagonally into the shiny brown skin of a turkey.

Our family gathered inside a modest six-room tenement and prayer performed an important role as Christians. My mother was Catholic and my father Protestant. Jesus held no distinction.

Snow continued to fall on this day. I looked at that new Flexible Flyer and wanted to test it on the hill.

Father had other intentions. The sled could wait until the dishes were done. Cups and saucers always came first. I washed. My brother Edward dried. We didn’t have a dishwasher to perform the task and chores that were mandatory, even on Christmas Day.

Finally, I got permission. My very first automobile didn’t compare to a new sled and the way it maneuvered down that hill under a full moon.

My mother appeared on the porch to call us home. “Just a little while longer, pleez,” I replied. Mom was a softer touch than dad.

I had a pocket full of hard striped candy and shared some with my friends. We talked about Christmas and how good it felt.

Butch Donahue had real fleeced-lined gloves and he let us try them on. The wind stopped and the black branches of the trees kept the snow well contained.

We understood Christmas better than anybody because we were kids without a care in the world. Our cheeks were red, our eyes glistened and we wiped our noses on the back of our mittens.

The following day, there was some excitement because the neighborhood priest had found a baseball glove in the manger by the main altar.

Everybody denied knowing anything about it. Then a poor kid from the projects with little else to claim admitted his act of charity. He said he put the glove by the crèche because he figured Santa forgot to give the infant Christ child anything.

It was his only present and he had gotten it free from a firehouse. I heard the story and got mad at myself. I remember shedding a tear that year because I knew then that I really knew nothing about Christmas.

As I look about me in my advanced years, I only wish that we could revisit those days when times were simple and people were more frugal. There were no big lottery games and technology didn’t manipulate our lifestyle.

The world was fair and everyone appeared honest as we pursued our dreams in a tinsel-coated world. We believed in the power of love, a kind word, truth, justice, imagination and making men in the snow.

For one brief moment, I’d love to hand over my credit card bills, 401K statements, insurance forms and shopping lists that appear endless.

Take the doctor’s bills and the gossip, the illness and loss of loved ones.

Carry me back to yesteryear when a small transistor radio only needed batteries and was far more entertaining than crashing computers and outrageous video games.

Bury all the bad news for one brief day and put a moratorium to crime and punishment. Let’s finally end this terrible war in the Middle East and live in a world where peace and harmony work hand-in-hand.