It’s 1:00 a.m. on December 24. I’m as ready for Christmas as I am going to get. The presents are wrapped, the living room has been made ready for Santa’s visit. The Christmas cards are done and mailed, and except for the fact that my house is its usual cluttered self, yep, I’m about as ready as can be.
Except that I’m not. Not at all. I’m not feeling it this year. I haven’t even watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” yet. Or The Grinch. So it can’t be Christmas. Not yet.
A few years ago, my daughter unearthed a dusty yellow binder from a pile of old books in our dining room nook, and asked me with great curiosity what it was. “It’s my diary,” I replied, “and no, you can’t read it. Not ’til I’m dead.” I did write a lot in my teens and twenties. Not so much now, if the mere fact of having a blog doesn’t call me a liar. The diary does contain my first heartaches and other stories that I’d probably shudder if my mother or my daughter read them. But it also contains a collection of stories and poems I wrote as a young teen, back in the days when being in a wheelchair pretty much meant I didn’t leave my house except for school. One of those stories was a Christmas story I wrote as a Christmas present to my father in 1979, at 14. Given that it is December 24 after all, I thought I would share it here. Please don’t laugh. I copied it as was, from my teenage perspective. Perhaps I will read it to my kids tomorrow. Maybe you can read it to yours.
If you’re celebrating something over the next couple of days, make the most of it, whatever it is. Life’s too short not to try. And now, I’m off, to do just that. I’m going to give this Christmas Spirit thing a good try. Wish me luck.