What do we live for, if not to make life difficult for others? We certainly see that a lot these days — people being difficult in new and imaginative ways.
Me, I go a subtler route. I keep friends and family wary and confused, not sure what to expect.
For instance, my kids are letting me host Christmas dinner, and I’m sending out random group texts: “How do Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks sound?” Or, “Are Popsicles OK for dessert?”
From that, they conclude that I am not talking my Christmas night hosting seriously. After all, you can blow a birthday, but not Christmas dinner. In many families, ours included, it is a religious rite.
The consensus: Don’t let Dad hijack this special night, with his quips, some of which are barely quips. In a weak moment, we’ve turned Christmas dinner over to a chef who uses the same knife to dice the onions as he does to butter the bread.
Too late. The offer is out there, the crown roast is on order. At this point, all they can do is sit back in awe.
Get this: Instead of offering a “selfie station,” a photo spot designed for pretty social media posts, I’m setting up an “Elfie Station.”
So, I’m not exactly phoning this in. I’m taking it quasi-elfin’-seriously. And my snarky son Smartacus will be helping, if that eases any worries.
Over the decades, this old house has seen many Christmases. Santa used to come on a regular basis. When he was finished, my wife Posh would sit on his lap, and in lieu of a tip, read from the personal diary she kept during her down time at work.
“Whatcha think, Santa? Allegory or truth? Wanna hear another chapter?”
Then she’d tickle Santa’s ribs, through his thick suit and long underwear.
“Sure, one more,” I’d say.
During the Posh Dynasty, the house used to be covered, floor to ceiling, with gifts. The dog couldn’t go out. No one could get to the kitchen for coffee.
In our family, there is a fine line between desperation and insanity, and coffee was the elixir on which this house flowed quickly and turbulently toward the sea.
On Christmas morning, it would be a bounce house. From the outside, you could see the way the kids slammed the walls with glee. The chimney would wobble (we just have the one).
At some point, usually about 9:30 a.m., a quiet would descend on the little peppermint-scented house in the foothills above Los Angeles.
Gasp, the gifts were all gone!
The kids would sit, exhausted and a little teary, sad that they’d opened the last present. Once in a while, maybe every other year, gratitude seeped in.
Posh, who had slept late, finally showed up, kicking through all the wrappings and a riot of ribbons, looking for a holiday beverage. After all, she’d been up past midnight with Santa. That can leave a mighty thirst.
As the kids grew up, this holiday house became quiet, especially after Posh passed some seven years ago. I think my adult children were leery of holiday ghosts. Over the years, they’d seen so many — in movies, on stage, in real life.
At that point, my adult daughters started hosting Christmas Eve and Christmas themselves; the joy and mayhem transferred from my house to theirs. I found it quite alarming, and still tons of fun.
See, as any holiday classic will remind you: Christmas isn’t a place; it’s a state of mind. You could have a good holiday, I’m convinced, aboard a Greyhound bus, or in a kennel full of dogs.
If the spirit strikes you, as the candles burn down, and the rum runs out, you can even have a decent Christmas in a crummy studio apartment in Miami, as I did my first year out of college. I was alone but not lonely. After all, I had Christmas to keep me company.
There is a treasure chest of resonance in this bloated season, no matter your faith, your values, your enormous Visa bill.
Let laughter be your liquor. Let the spirit of the holiday in any way you can.
Watch the moonlight dance on the new fallen snow — or in our case, the wet sand in Playa del Rey.
Remember, wherever you are, that there’s a star for you up there someplace — a beacon, a tinseled blessing, a well-worn sliver of hope.
How has this wild yet moving holiday survived so long? On stars. On hope.
Look up with wonder.
Need a book for under the tree? Please check out “Daditude” or “What the Bears Know,” available online of in the better bookstores: Vroman’s, Pages, Flintridge Books. Thanks in advance.
Coming Saturday: Stuck on the tarmac, snow rolling in.
I have faith that Christmas dinner is in good hands with you, whether fish sticks or crown roast. Your posts and adorable family pics (are you paying them scale at least?) help make the Season brighter for all of us. You keep us focused on what really matters: friends, family, faith and a good sense of humor. Those will always get us through. Thanks! Merry everything.
Thanks Caroll, as usual, you hit the nails on the head.
Thank Chris for a very touching column about the joy of Christmas. Rosemary and I are the last of our immediate families except for our daughter who will pay a visit and expects – nay, DEMANDS, that I make her a pecan pie, which makes us all very happy. I’ve had a bad cold so have put off making the rumballs I send all over the country since I don’t wish to pay postage on a virus or whatever it is. Some of the folks will get their Christmas cookies probably in July because of this. YOU hit the nail on the head again – thanks.
Thanks Bill. The rumballs can wait. The pecan pie is what counts! Hope you feel better soon. Cheers and hugs.
Happy Holidays Chris to you and family! Can’t believe it’s been 7 years. I so wish time would slow down. Memories of Holidays now and throughout the years are so wonderful to reflect upon. And I love taking the time to sit and remember those no longer with us. Warms my heart. Cheers!
Yes, life should slow down. Great seeing you this year. Here’s to all the fun times ahead.
Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks. Now there’s a flashback — to Dana Point, 1969, when Bill and I ran away from home and hid out in a tiny house for $100 a month. Didn’t know how to cook anything, but we survived, thanks to Mrs. Paul.
I particularly loved the phrase “Christmas isn’t a place; it’s a state of mind.” Our family is composed of a mere five individuals, but we LOVE hanging out for the holidays. Bring on the scotch and bourbon (and something milder for the kid) and whatever game we’re currently into. Fortunately, we’ve all become better cooks! Looking forward to next week, where I will cherish every moment.
Best to all the Drysdales. Cheers!
Yes. A state of mind it is. The pic of the tree and the little dog at Suzanne’s says all you need to say about this one. Pulling it all together at your place seems the perfect thing to do, this year. While much in the world is fragmenting, dissolving, coming unwrapped, you are wrapping things up, bringing together the old and the new. wrapped like that, what a beautiful Christmas gift.
Christmas can be a balm, though that’s often temporary. Take it while we can!
Kindness. Not everyone has family, spousal units, kids, friends or extended family. Many are alone. Please be kind to one person each day and you will feel fabulous. Just a smile and a ‘thank you, friend’ will suffice. Remember your lonely days. And, fish stick tacos can be so tasty! Mrs Paul’s or Gorton’s…
Absolutely!
Hi Chris, I love this post! Every note was right! Merry Christmas to you, Suzanne and your lovely family….xox
Hi Nancy, so glad you liked it. Merry Christmas, from our home to yours.
I especially loved this post today Chris. It was funny and touching.
You always make me hungry — be it a Roast or Fish stix. — and beverages are always welcome.. Best wishes to your beautiful family. Health and good wishes for all in 2026! Time to count our blessings!!
Yep, counting our blessings is the only math I like. Best wishes, Virginia! Here’s to all the smiles ahead.
Chris, to you and your family, Merry Christmas!
Rick, right back at you. Enjoy every moment.