A Three-Decker Sauerkraut and Toadstool Sandwich, With Arsenic Sauce.

I have a couple of absolutes at my house. First, we don’t cheer for the Utes, but only slightly less well known is this: We do NOT do Christmas until after Thanksgiving. I don’t want Christmas music playing, I don’t want to see Christmas lights, I do NOT want Hallmark Christmas movies on my TV until AFTER I’ve had my Thanksgiving.

This (perfectly rational and appropriate) position has earned me more than my share of name-calling. I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve been called the Grinch or Scrooge. People seem to get particular joy in trying to get a rise out of me (I’m looking at you, Marien). The thing is that I cannot really disagree. When we watch A Christmas Carol, I listen to Ebenezer complain about music and cheer and everything associated with Christmas and I sympathize with him. (Side note: hands down, the best version of the Christmas Carol in movie form is the Muppets Christmas Carol. It freaks Marien out a bit (she’s not a muppeteer), but it is absolutely hilarious. I love it, BUT NOT UNTIL AFTER THANKSGIVING!)

Like Dr. Seuss's Grinch, I bemoan all the noise Noise NOISE NOISE! I struggle a lot with the commercial side of Christmas, the very thing that brings many people so much joy. When the radio stations begin playing Christmas music right after Halloween, I block the stations on my car stereo. Even after Thanksgiving, I steer clear from those stations because I can really only handle about 2 days of Madonna singing "Santa Baby." Then I’m ready to scream. (OK, the truth is I can't handle even 20 seconds of that song, regardless of whether its after Thanksgiving. It's the rest of the modern standards that drive me crazy within 48 hours.)

I am notoriously bad about getting presents. Don’t get me wrong, I love to give gifts. I really put a lot of thought into gifts that I think would be most appreciated. But I’m usually out running from store to store on the day before Christmas looking for things at the last possible minute. Of course, that means I’m crowding aisles along with hundreds of my fellow procrastinators, not all of which share my sunny disposition, which only leads to more yuletide dissatisfaction.

I haven’t always been this way. For a long time, I really loved the pre-Holiday traditions of Christmas in the Fontano household. My parents raised us doing Twelve-Days of Christmas for friends and neighbors. The best job one could get would be delivering twelve-days, because it meant (i) you got to stay up late, (ii) you got to go outside, in the dead of winter, late at night, and (iii) you got to creep up to people’s houses, stealthily crunching through icy remnants of winter storms, strategically placing that night’s gift and then RUNNING FOR YOUR LIFE so that they wouldn’t catch you. (Note: that was fun even in Hawaii, which lost all of the winterized elements of the night.)

Clorinda and I don’t do twelve days. We tried, but she is not (by her own admission) a “crafty” person, and although I am generally a walking pinterest board, it simply doesn’t happen. We do other “secret Santa” stuff, but it’s different.

Another Fontano tradition is Christmas stories. My mother compiled LOTS of Christmas stories that became absolute favorites: "For the Man Who Hated Christmas", "Trouble at the Inn", and "An Exchange of Gifts" all come to mind.* My mom would read a different story, sometimes two or three, every night before we would all be sent off to bed. Even as a teenager I would sit and listen.

[SPOILER ALERT!] I would cry when Mike’s family put white envelopes on the tree, cry again when Wallace Purling invited Joseph to stay in HIS room, and cry one more time when Marty slammed into the electric fence.

[* I've pasted copies of the stories after the blog entry. It's my gift to you.]

My kids don’t have the same attachment to those stories that their old man does.

And so on Sunday I found myself in the kitchen making fudge (yet another Fontano tradition) and listening to It’s a Wonderful Life playing in the next room. Although it was Jimmy Stewart's voice, I heard myself when George Bailey complained about being stuck in a town he didn’t want to be in, in a house that was old and drafty, and about having all those kids. [Just kidding about the kids part. Kind of.]

Tonight the part of Jim Fontano will be played by Jimmy Stewart, in the form of George Bailey.

I guess that means my adversaries will have yet another name to call me, although I don’t think calling somebody “George” or “Mr. Bailey” has quite the same impact as “Grinch” or “Scrooge.” Alas.

As I recognized myself, I thought more about being a Grinch, and a Scrooge as well. I was discouraged. It was the Sunday before Christmas and I was still the pre-conversion Grinch/Scrooge/George Bailey. I didn’t want to celebrate Christmas. I was tired of the same. old. routine. Christmas had lost its novelty to me. More importantly, I had lost the spirit of Christmas.

Tonight, Christmas Eve, it finally came. It came later this year than any year in the past. Even today I was at Target getting stocking stuffers and buying shaving cream for my son. The aisles were crowded with people who didn’t want to be there. The checkers clearly had lost all will to live (who can blame them, really?). I had to park way out toward the highway because there was no room in the inn, er, in the parking lot for the gargantuan rental SUV (I needed Wallace Purling to say, “Jim, come back! You can have my stall!) 

Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store.

I returned home, we had a huge take-out-Chinese-food-Christmas-Eve Dinner (thank you Alina!), and then we migrated to the living room. After everyone (else) had decorated the tree, my father-in-law sat down at the grand piano and started banging out the carols. We sang all the classics, from We Three Kings to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, everyone was singing as Cloyd pounded out the notes. Someone asked whether I Heard the Bells was in the book. It was, and as we sang I started to feel the cries trying to break free. The words of the third verse sounded like me:

And in despair I bowed my head:“There is no peace on earth,” I said,“For hate is strong and mocks the songOf peace on earth, good will to men.”

Finally, a Christmas carol that understands me. And then this:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Sweetly, quietly, the Spirit testified that it was true. God is not dead, nor doth he sleep. He knows me and my struggles and frustrations, and he brings peace to my soul.

A few minutes later I thought I’d make it tough for my father-in-law. Toward the back of the book I found a carol that was filled with flats and notes galore, and I flippantly suggested the song on page 75, more in hopes of getting a laugh than actually singning. I forgot how talented Cloyd is, and he started playing O' Holy Night. The family joined in and sang along:

O holy night! the stars are brightly shining,It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth;Long lay the world in sin and error pining,Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn;Fall on your knees, Oh hear the angel voices!O night divine, O night when Christ was born!O night, O holy night, O night divine!

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand,So led by lights of a star sweetly gleaming,Here came the Wise Men from Orient Land.The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger,In all our trials born to be our friend.He knows our need, To our weakness is no strangerBehold your King, before Him lowly bend!Behold your King, before Him lowly bend!

Surely He taught us to love one another;His law is love and His gospel is peace;Chains shall He break for the slave he is our brother,And in His name all oppression shall cease.Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,Let all within us praise His holy name;Christ is the Lord, Oh praise His name forever!His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!

I stopped singing and instead listened, not just to the voices of my daughters sitting next to me, or of the rest of the family surrounding the piano. I listened to the words and the message of the song. Indeed, I am a witness that Jesus Christ, the King of Kings, was born in a lowly stable over 2000 years ago. He is my friend and he knows my needs. He brings strength to me in my weakness.

Even when my heart is two sizes too small. Even when I complain about towns I don’t like or houses that aren’t my ideal. He softens my heart and fills me with love and peace.

Merry Christmas all you Whos down in Whoville! Merry Christmas Bedford Falls! And God bless us, everyone.

===============

For the Man Who Hated Christmas.

By Nancy W. Gavin

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas--oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.

Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears.

It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.

Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition--one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.

You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.

Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down the envelope.

Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.

==========

Trouble at the Inn

By Dina Donahue

For years now, whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling.

Wally's performance in one annual production of the Nativity play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what happened.

Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty keeping up. He was big and awkward, slow in movement and mind.

Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them or any game, for that matter, in which winning was important.

They'd find a way to keep him out, but Wally would hang around anyway—not sulking, just hoping. He was a helpful boy, always willing and smiling, and the protector, paradoxically, of the underdog. If the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would be Wally who'd say, "Can't they stay? They're no bother."

Wally fancied the idea of being a shepherd in the Christmas pageant, but the play's director, Miss Lumbard, assigned him a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally's size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful.

And so it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gathered for the town's yearly extravaganza of crooks and creches, of beards, crowns, halos and a whole stageful of squeaky voices.

No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that Miss Lumbard had to make sure he didn't wander onstage before his cue.

Then the time came when Joseph appeared, slowly, tenderly guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the innkeeper was there, waiting.

"What do you want?" Wally said, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture.

"We seek lodging."

"Seek it elsewhere." Wally spoke vigorously. "The inn is filled."

"Sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary."

"There is no room in this inn for you." Wally looked properly stern.

"Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired."

Now, for the first time, the innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause, long enough to make the audience a bit tense with embarrassment.

"No! Begone!" the prompter whispered.

"No!" Wally repeated automatically. "Begone!"

Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and Mary laid her head upon her husband's shoulder and the two of them started to move away. The innkeeper did not return inside his inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway, watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears.

And suddenly this Christmas pageant became different from all others.

"Don't go, Joseph," Wally called out. "Bring Mary back." And Wallace Purling's face grew into a bright smile. "You can have my room."

Some people in town thought that the pageant had been ruined. Yet there were others—many, many others—who considered it the most Christmas of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.

==========

An Exchange of Gifts
By Diane Rayner

I grew up believing that Christmas was a time when strange and wonderful things happened, when wise and royal visitors came riding, when at midnight the barnyard animals talked to one another, and in the light of a fabulous star God came down to us as a little child. Christmas to me has always been a time of enchantment, and never more so than the year that my son Marty was eight.

That was the year that my children and I moved into a cozy trailer home in a forested area just outside of Redmond, Washington. As the holiday approached, our spirits were light, not to be dampened even by the winter rains that swept down Puget Sound to douse our home and make our floors muddy.

Throughout that December, Marty had been the most spirited, and busiest, of us all. He was my youngest; a cheerful boy, blond-haired and playful, with a quaint habit of looking up at you and cocking his head like a puppy when you talked to him. Actually, the reason for this was that Marty was deaf in his left ear, but it was a condition that he never complained about.

For weeks, I had been watching Marty. I knew that something was going on with him that he was not telling me about. I saw how eagerly he made his bed, took out the trash, and carefully set the table and helped Rick and Pam prepare dinner before I got home from work. I saw how he silently collected his tiny allowance and tucked it away, spending not a cent of it. I had no idea what all this quiet activity was about, but I suspected that somehow it had something to do with Kenny.

Kenny was Marty's friend, and ever since they had found each other in the springtime, they were seldom apart. If you called to one, you got them both. Their world was in the meadow, a horse pasture broken by a small winding stream, where the boys caught frogs and snakes, where they would search for arrowheads or hidden treasure, or where they would spend an afternoon feeding peanuts to the squirrels.

Times were hard for our little family, and we had to do some scrimping to get by. With my job as a meat wrapper and with a lot of ingenuity around the trailer, we managed to have elegance on a shoestring. But not Kenny's family. They were desperately poor, and his mother was having a real struggle to feed and clothe her two children. They were a good, solid family. But Kenny's mom was a proud woman, very proud, and she had strict rules.

How we worked, as we did each year, to make our home festive for the holiday! Ours was a handcrafted Christmas of gifts hidden away and ornaments strung about the place.

Marty and Kenny would sometimes sit still at the table long enough to help make cornucopias or weave little baskets for the tree. But then, in a flash, one would whisper to the other, and they would be out the door and sliding cautiously under the electric fence into the horse pasture that separated our home from Kenny's.

One night shortly before Christmas, when my hands were deep in dough, shaping tiny nutlike Danish cookies heavily spiced with cinnamon, Marty came to me and said in a tone mixed with pleasure and pride, "Mom, I've bought Kenny a Christmas present. Want to see it?" So that's what he's been up to, I said to myself. "It's something he's wanted for a long, long time, Mom."

After carefully wiping his hands on a dish towel, he pulled from his pocket a small box. Lifting the lid, I gazed at the pocket compass that my son had been saving all those allowances to buy. A little compass to point an eight-year-old adventurer through the woods.

"It's a lovely gift, Martin," I said, but even as I spoke, a disturbing thought came to mind. I knew how Kenny's mother felt about their poverty. They could barely afford to exchange gifts among themselves, and giving presents to others was out of the question. I was sure that Kenny's proud mother would not permit her son to receive something he could not return in kind.

Gently, carefully, I talked over the problem with Marty. He understood what I was saying.

"I know, Mom, I know! … But what if it was a secret? What if they never found out who gave it?"

I didn't know how to answer him. I just didn't know.

The day before Christmas was rainy and cold and gray. The three kids and I all but fell over one another as we elbowed our way about our little home, putting finishing touches on Christmas secrets and preparing for family and friends who would be dropping by.

Night settled in. The rain continued. I looked out the window over the sink and felt an odd sadness. How mundane the rain seemed for Christmas Eve! Would any royal men come riding on such a night? I doubted it. It seemed to me that strange and wonderful things happened only on clear nights, nights when one could at least see a star in the heavens.

I turned from the window, and as I checked on the ham and homemade bread warming in the oven, I saw Marty slip out the door. He wore his coat over his pajamas, and he clutched a tiny, colorfully wrapped box in his hand.

Down through the soggy pasture he went, then a quick slide under the electric fence and across the yard to Kenny's house. Up the steps on tiptoe, shoes squishing; open the screen door just a crack; place the gift on the doorstep, then a deep breath, a reach for the doorbell, and a press on it hard.

Quickly Marty turned, ran down the steps and across the yard in a wild race to get away unnoticed. Then, suddenly, he banged into the electric fence.

The shock sent him reeling. He lay stunned on the wet ground. His body quivered and he gasped for breath. Then slowly, weakly, confused and frightened, he began the grueling trip back home.

"Marty," we cried as he stumbled through the door, "what happened?" His lower lip quivered, his eyes brimmed.

"I forgot about the fence, and it knocked me down!"

I hugged his muddy little body to me. He was still dazed and there was a red mark beginning to blister on his face from his mouth to his ear. Quickly I treated the blister and, with a warm cup of cocoa soothing him, Marty's bright spirits returned. I tucked him into bed and just before he fell asleep, he looked up at me and said, "Mom, Kenny didn't see me. I'm sure he didn't see me."

That Christmas Eve I went to bed unhappy and puzzled. It seemed such a cruel thing to happen to a little boy while on the purest kind of Christmas mission, doing what the Lord wants us all to do--giving to others--and giving in secret at that. I did not sleep well that night. Somewhere deep inside I think I must have been feeling the disappointment that the night of Christmas had come and it had been just an ordinary, problem-filled night, no mysterious enchantment at all.

But I was wrong.

By morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone. The streak on Marty's face was very red, but I could tell that the burn was not serious. We opened our presents, and soon, not unexpectedly, Kenny was knocking on the door, eager to show Marty his new compass and tell about the mystery of its arrival. It was plain that Kenny didn't suspect Marty at all, and while the two of them talked, Marty just smiled and smiled.

Then I noticed that while the two boys were comparing their Christmases, nodding and gesturing and chattering away, Marty was not cocking his head. When Kenny was talking, Marty seemed to be listening with his deaf ear. Weeks later a report came from the school nurse, verifying what Marty and I already knew. "Marty now has complete hearing in both ears."

The mystery of how Marty regained his hearing, and still has it, remains just that--a mystery. Doctors suspect, of course, that the shock from the electric fence was somehow responsible. Perhaps so. Whatever the reason, I just remain thankful to God for the good exchange of gifts that was made that night.

So you see, strange and wonderful things still happen on the night of our Lord's birth. And one does not have to have a clear night, either, to follow a fabulous star.