I
was a bright, shiny new step father
on Christmas Eve of 1981. Kathy and
I had been married all of one week. With
foolish enthusiasm, I wanted to establish our own family traditions for the
holiday that, hopefully, would endear me to hearts of my new daughters. Carolynne
was nine years old, Heather only
seven.
One
night earlier that week I rushed from my job repairing football shoulder pads
to a bookstore on Lincoln Avenue
conveniently located near a favorite saloon.
Undoubtedly fueled by a couple of shots of Christian Brothers with beer backs, I plunged into the store. I found what I was looking for—a nice small
edition of one of my own favorite Christmas stories with some charming illustrations.
After
dinner on Christmas Eve, and some negotiations between the girls and their
mother over whether they would be able to open any “under the tree” presents
that night—she let them open one—I asked them to settle next to me on the
couch. Kathy played some carols softly on
the on the stereo.
I
was as excited as I could be. I could
picture the girls, all grown up, reading this same story to their children
fondly remembering me, of course. I
opened the book and in my most mellifluous voice began to read.
I
think I read four lines before they began to squirm. After the second paragraph, just as the story
was getting going, Heather bleated out pitifully, “Mom! This is boring! Do we have to!” Carolynne seconded the anguish.
Since
it was not my intention to actually torture any children, I reluctantly shut my
book and let them clamor down to play with the plastic pin ball game that they
had opened. I was heartbroken, but did
my best to keep up a brave front.
The
evening got better. I, notorious heathen
in those days, was exposed to my first ever Christmas midnight mass with a half an hour of caroling by the
congregation before the service. We
walked home from church in the sparkling cold and tucked in the girls—who woke
us about 3 AM to open presents. We made
them go back to sleep, but could not delay Christmas morning for long.
I
never again tried to inflict my children with the story. From Christmas to Christmas they would remind
me of my foolishness. It comes up even
to this day, so I guess I did start a tradition of sorts.
Anyway,
I still love the story and privately, when no one is looking, read it for
myself every year.
This
year, I decided to try to share it again.
This time with you. I hope it
doesn’t make you squirm.
A Child’s Christmas in Wales
By Dylan Thomas
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years
around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking
of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it
snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,
like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and
they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my
hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that
wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the
carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.
Continue
at http://www.bfsmedia.com/MAS/Dylan/Christmas.html
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