Greek to Me December 2007
Finding the Christmas Present in the Ghost of Christmas Past
©2007 by Michael Raysses
I
don’t know what it is about the holidays that compels me to reminisce.
On the one hand, I want to be here now. On the other hand, my impulse to
muse over holidays gone by is so strong that I can’t imagine what it would
be like to experience this Christmas without comparing it to those past.
So, in the face of these competing forces, let us attend…
Being raised Greek Orthodox, Christmas was a big deal as far as celebrations went. Though it lacked Easter’s pomp, it more than compensated with all its customs. And of all of those customs, the most intricate and meaningful for me was the writing of my annual Christmas list to Santa Claus.
If I ever doubted I was a writer at heart, all I really need to do is look back at my approach to my list. For example, I did multiple drafts of my list, and I wouldn’t think of doing a first draft until I had done copious amounts of research. I’d start with the Sears catalog, which had the largest assortment of toys. But it lacked a certain ‘edge,’ and despite its sheer number of choices, sometimes there was nothing within its pages that beguiled my fevered preadolescent mind. That’s where the promotional materials for the lesser-known stores came in handy.
Once the first draft was finished, I would comb through it
again, looking for overlooked omissions. Inevitably, I would find that
I had left out the latest needless trinket/accessory/board game, and would
amend the list accordingly.
But the list was nothing without an accompanying cover letter—my chance
to get St. Nick up to speed on what I’d been up to since he last heard
from me. If you think I am being disingenuous here, think again. I actually
considered dropping Santa a little mid-summer greeting sometime around
the Fourth of July, figuring what could it hurt? The man would probably
enjoy hearing from a kid at some time other than the holidays. Truth to
tell, I was an inveterate kiss-ass back then, and figured if Santa was
like any of the adults I knew, nothing would catch him more off-guard than
an unsolicited summertime note. I dropped the idea in favor of letters
of recommendation from both my parents, duly signed and sworn, attesting
to what a great kid I had been, my behavior vis-à-vis my sisters to the
contrary. But all of this was mere prelude to a larger issue—the one of
Santa himself.
As a kid, I had a fertile imagination. I was the only one on my block that
had a violin teacher. What connects those two sentences was that my teacher
was imaginary. Her name was Mrs. Kagel. What made her status even more
noteworthy, beyond that she didn’t exist, was that I didn’t own or play
the violin. So the idea of believing in an elderly gentleman with a flowing
white beard and sleigh full of presents propelled by reindeer that could
fly wasn’t even a stretch for my elastic sense of fancy. It was a belief
I clung to long past my most stalwart peers. In fact, it got to the point
where people would look at me with an impatient glare that asked, “Do you
still believe?!?” I would nod my response, never understanding how my beliefs
could be the source of so much consternation.
For all of my devotion to my faith in Santa’s existence, though, I did have a dark night of the soul early on. I had just received my Man from U.N.C.L.E camera in the mail, when I devised a system to catch him as he emerged from the heating vent in the floor. (We didn’t have a fireplace, and I figured Santa liked to make his entrance by way of places where heat was conveyed.) But I fell asleep while on Santa patrol after I ate the milk and cookies we left out for him. These were the same cookies that in years past were left with the same inimitable tooth print as my Dad’s crooked smile, left on the same table where Santa would leave a parting note written in handwriting that shared my Mother’s graceful cursive swoop. But none of that registered.
I had a personal Christmas ritual that I maintained long after I ceased
being a child. After everyone went to bed, I turned out all the lights
in the house except for those on the Christmas tree itself. I wrapped myself
in the ancient quilt my Grandmother had made long before I was born, and
I lay down under the tree. I closed my eyes, inhaling the piney essence
that wafted from it, basking in the glow of decorative lights that seemed
made to burn for this night only. In that moment, I began to understand
that Santa was just an image for something I wanted to believe—that it’s
possible for things to change seemingly overnight, and that good things
come to those who do good.
Thankfully, those beliefs have matured and deepened into what I believe
today, leaving me with a gift too sublime for any list I could have written.
And if for some reason you have a problem with that, just don’t tell Mrs.
Kagel—she gets ornery around the holidays.
Michael Raysses is a writer/actor/National Public Radio commentator who lives in Los Angeles. His email address is MichaelRaysses@Hotmail.com.