Six Nights And A Wakeup

As every other television commercial will attest, Christmas is less than a week away.

Are you feeling that foreboding pressure yet?

If you have young children (or grandkids), this is truly a magical time of year. They ooze excitement and parents never have more control over their children’s conduct than the week leading up to Christmas.

When I was a kid – yes, despite those rumors, I once was a human kid – this was the day you got that one special gift that you had been waiting for all year. When I was young, it was that special toy, and when I was a little older, it was that special article of clothing a parent would not ever normally buy you – like a Nehru jacket or elephant bell bottoms (look them up). I got an electric guitar I was dying for in my early teens, but never actually learned how play it (a childhood friend and talented neighbor, Billy Young, did learn to play it, so it didn’t go to waste). I was an asshole. But my parents came through.

If you were into sports, and were playing on a school team, Christmas is when you landed the latest high end sneaker, like Puma or Adidas. If you weren’t on a team, but still schoolyard athletic, then it was blacktop Converse or Keds. PF Flyers made the grade if your weren’t athletic at all.

You see, back then, most parents didn’t have the disposable income to be buying kids whatever they wanted whenever they thought they needed it. And families were much larger back then. Being one of only five siblings led to neighborhood whispers that my family may not really be Irish. But parents budgeted (or went into debt) to make sure they came through at least once a year with a special gift for each of us, maybe twice if you count birthdays.

My generation changed that. With rare exception, our kids got whatever they needed or wanted whenever they asked for it. So, now, when Christmas comes around people are scrambling and stressed trying to come up with that special gift that will make someone’s day.

This final week is when the stress becomes palpable, tangible.

I’ve given up on that impossible task. It’s money or nothing. Here’s some cash. Buy what makes you happy. I haven’t a clue. I have no taste in clothes or music and don’t keep up with trends. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to try to figure out what color you like (I’m colorblind) or what size fits you.

Money doesn’t seem to have that Christmas magic. That personal touch. At least when it comes to family or friends. But let us not scoff at money.

Now, Christmas, back in the day for us BICs (“Bronx Irish-Catholics”), had a religious element to it as well. As a BIC, going to Catholic School until Senior Year of High School (the wig incident), religion permeated and controlled our everyday lives. But Christmas was the Super Bowl. All pomp and circumstance. You never missed it.

Jesus'[s] birthday.

Next to Easter, there was nothing more important to our religious/cultural tribe. And Easter had a sorrowful bent, while Christmas was a fun celebration. So, we paid extra attention.

High Mass on Christmas morning was standing room only. The best and brightest among the Catholic Brahmans made sure they got their asses in the pews for the high mass. The closer to the altar, the more important you appeared, so you lined up early. It was socially imperative for Riverdale families to be seen at St. Maggie’s high mass.

I loved listening to Monica Bjorkrin sing All Holy Night. Still my favorite Christmas hymn. Drummer Boy is a distant second.

When you got old enough to drink – sliding scale depending on your clique – you attended Midnight Mass with your friends on the 24th. There, it was who controlled the back pews that mattered on a social level.

But inebriated or not you still got there. You paid your respects to your religion. You paid your respects to your God. You gave Caesar what is Caesar’s.

And you always kicked in when the offering basket came around.

A small part of me misses that religious-communal part of Christmas. Hanging with the tribe. Welcoming our God.

With my family and tribe scattered to the four winds, thank God for Zelle, and my leanings more naturally spiritual than formally religious, I’ve distilled my celebration of this magical holiday down to its essence these days. It’s a transitional season. Solstice. Shortest days are behind us. New year carries hope for better times. Intentions are launched.

Although I do give Jesus his due. Happy birthday Christ. Thrilled and thankful you walked among us. Loved us all unconditionally from peasants to Kings. Performed miracles, fed the hungry, healed the sick. Changed the world. Gave us the golden rule. Laid down your life for what you believed, and for those that followed you when not many did. Mastered the concept of Ascension, here and beyond.

Whatever your leanings, there’s a lot to be learned from Jesus.

Lisa and I never leave the house this time of year without a little extra cash to hand out to people who look like they can use a small blessing. They are free to use it for food, shelter or whatever makes their lives a little happier at that moment, not my call. I can’t judge them, not having walked in their shoes. Vaya con dios.

And if I’ve come away from my deep BIC roots with nothing else, it’s the desire to share that direct form of small benediction with strangers, especially around Christmas. It’s only a two second exchange, often at a stop sign or traffic light, where your eyes meet and good wishes are whispered. Alms offered. The closest thing in my BIC lexicon would be “the sign of peace.” Only, neither of us engaged in it care what religious or cultural tribe the other may belong to, where you come from, or who you are. For those two seconds at that moment we acknowledge our common humanity.

In each of those cases, a little money is greatly appreciated.

And I think baby Jesus would appreciate each of those moments.

Well, before we get to Christmas day, there’s still some work week left to attend to.

You fine, five readers, take a moment to count your blessings, because, no matter how good or bad your life may seem, there is always someone out there whose life is a little worse than yours.

And I know how tight money is, especially around Christmas, so if you see someone out there looking for a little help, if you can’t offer them some cash, say a little mental prayer for them. Thoughts carry their own magic and energy. Positive synchronicities. And remember that if you strip us all of our respective tribal and religious distinctions and affectations, and see past the innate biological melatonin count that shifts among all races on an arbitrary sliding scale, we are just humans, and we need each other.

There but for the grace of God . . . .

And those of you lucky enough to have your family and/or community around you this week, take stock in those blessings, and reach out to those on the fringes, who may have been unintentionally relegated through no fault of their own to the social/familial hinterlands by the non-stop pace we all live in today, and say hello. Let them know you are thinking of them this time of year. Share that benediction. Share the love.

Now I’m going to go and share a blessing and cuddle with my feral kitties, then share a little more on my rounds.

And whatever we do today, let us make it a great one.