Stuck in the ’70s — It’s About Time You Came Back!

I’m anti-humbug. Let me say that before all else. I’m always the Mom baking tons of cookies, making cheese balls, crocheting or cross stitching something 6 months ahead. We must watch the Christmas shows in order, and it isn’t Christmas until the Heat Miser and the Snow Miser have fought it out, regulated by Mother Nature. Stop-action animation was made for Christmas. Rankin and Bass are the cat’s pajamas.

For the past 20 years I’ve made sure my boys had everything they hoped Santa would bring. Last year, it was a 1-son Christmas. This year, it’s a zero-son Christmas. The house is in a shambles. I can’t find the tree. Blah, blah, blah.

The decorations at the store went up before Halloween. This is what they’ve ordered. This is what you got. This is all you’re gonna get. Black Friday came like a big dog. Customers were waiting at 5 a.m. to swoop in on the deals. We kicked tail. That was it.

The other night … we decided we’d make a run to the nearest wet county (The Prohibition has not been abolished here, Dad would say). Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was bare. It’d been a rough week with ice storms and flu bugs. There was a dense fog advisory.

We conferred. It was unanimous. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor whatever that third thing is (Dark of night? Snow? Bumper-to-bumper traffic?) We should go.

I used to be able to handle rush-hour traffic in Peoria, Chicago, St. Louis, Little Rock, Memphis. Now, I can’t see at dark, and I get nervous if I’m not the only car on the road. Don drove. I took off my glasses so I couldn’t see. I put them back on, and everything looked the same. I turned on my cell phone and played Guitar Hero.

We made it there. We spent money.

On the way back, I thought about how broke we are. I thought about the fact that I’ve been poor since the time I legally became an adult. I’m pre-menopausal. Stuff wasn’t bad at all growing up. I never wanted for anything. Since I moved out of my parents’ home, I’ve never been able to make ends meet. (Moral of the Story: Don’t become a journalist, boys and girls.)

“How are we gonna make it two more weeks?”, I asked myself. Where will I find the cash to go pick up my youngest for Christmas week? Meanwhile, we were putt-ing along in the dense fog on the way home. I suggested the windshield wipers (didn’t make a difference), and I shifted the clasp on my necklace. It’s always moving around and hanging up on my little gold Cross.

Every time I pray, I touch the Cross Don got me last Christmas. It’s just below my Adam’s Apple. That night in the fog I shifted my necklace, and the true meaning of Christmas hit me in the side of the head like a ton of bricks. I thought about how the boys and I would always build the Fuller-Brush tree together, string the lights until we were dizzy, put up our special Hallmark ornament from that year. My boys are coming home. I thought about Nestor, the Long-eared Christmas Donkey. That was what we topped it off with each Christmas. Hokey,’70s stop-animation BS. Nestor was a Rudolph wannabe.

Nestor’s ears were so long (How long were they?) he tripped over them. The Arabs threw him out of the stable by his ears, and his mother broke out, sheltering him with her body from the cold. Of course, like Bambi’s mom, Nestor’s kicked the bucket. Cue your own Mom’s crying.

It ends up so well, though, for Nestor, and for all of us. Joseph and Mary used Nestor to bring them into Bethlehem. Nestor was somebody. He was able to go back home and shout, “Kiss my ass (literally – cuz he’s a donkey)! I got Mary to the manger. I am the chosen ass.”

What’s the point of all this, then? Shoot. Still hoping for a Christmas miracle. Still a Christian. I missed it this year. I’ll be more than ready the next.

Merry Christmas!
Julie
11:49 p.m.
12/19/08