<< Back 12/11/02 The problem with Christmas is ... By Scott McLeod Derek is one of those guys with an uncanny depth of perception for things complicated. Unfortunately, he’s also at the top of the list of those with an aching inability to fathom the obvious. Go figure. I got loads of good friends who are just like him — way smart at one level, top-of-the-class ignoramus at another. Maybe, just maybe, that’s most of us. He cornered me recently at our favorite dive and said he wanted to talk about his problems with the holidays, and I figured it was worth a listen. Derek is a shabby dresser and is forever nervous, and he didn’t disappoint. His fleece jacket was worn and his boots looked like he’d been hiking in ankle-deep mud. As he began peeling the label off the first Gaelic Ale and ranting, he sounded somewhat exasperated. “It’s the whole gift thing,” he said. “I always can’t wait to give presents to the people in my life, but the shopping is what turns me off. We’ve ruined the whole damn thing by making it one big celebration of too much stuff. I mean, it used to be that even the monster retailers with everything at stake waited until after Thanksgiving, but now we move straight from Halloween to ‘The Holiday Season.’ Two whole months of it. No thanks.” He launched into a story about a family he spotted at the Super Giant Big Box W mart the day after Thanksgiving. The kids running down the aisles picking up everything in sight, the shopping cart spilling toys and other gifts, mom and dad looking kind of glazed like the video poker machines over at Harrah’s had just taken their shirts. Lots of presents, lots of money spent, and no one looked happy. “The kids are what really got me,” Derek mused, both hands gripping the sweating bottle. “They don’t appreciate anything. And they always want more. More. Remember when we only got one or two things.” I thought back to Christmases past. I was born in 1959 to a middle-class family, and I told him I didn’t remember ever getting just one or two toys. GI Joes, Rock’em Sock’em Robots, bikes, slinkies, drums, telescopes, microscopes, creepy crawly sets, stereos, guns, cowboy garb. Plenty of stuff. My mom and dad, now, those depression-era kids got nothing. But this wasn’t about me, so I nodded politely. Derek launched into a heartfelt soliloquy about his son and his fascination with some new Sega 5000 X Box Super Gameboy “blah blah blah video game.” “The little guy’s gotta have it. Every time I go somewhere, they’ve just sold out. The kid — he’s almost 12 — has hopped on the lap of every Santa from here to Del Rio mooning for that little whiz box, but I just don’t think it’s gonna happen. Even if I find one, I still haven’t figured out how to pay for it. “He’s a good kid, but he gets this super toy or the whole Santa game is up. He’s fixed the bet by asking so many Santas, and if it doesn’t come in on Christmas morning I’ll have some explaining to do.” The Gaelic label was strewn around the table, wadded up, torn, messy. It was toast, as was the first ale. We ordered another round and I kept listening. “And my wife. She can never decide which Christmas cards she wants to send out and what family picture to put in them and how the letter with a whole year of our life should read. Man, I never thought a year of my life would be so easy to capsulize. She’s starting to stress, man, and you know what that means. When mom starts spacing, the whole house unravels pretty fast. And it’s still two weeks to Christmas.” The conversation spun from Christmas to college ball, and Derek’s own foibles began lighting up like Dillsboro or Waynesville on luminaire night. He was going berserk about Matt Doherty getting blown out of two games in a row despite having the best young guns in the country. Then he got downright boisterous laughing about how Coach K’s players always flop when they get to the pros. It had been a couple of hours and I was running out of time, but Derek ignored the looks I shot my watch and ordered one more round. He was becoming philosophical, warming up to the alcohol and the conversation. This is when he’s at his best, I thought. Here comes the pithy, profound stuff that you have to wait through 2.5 beers to get. “I guess my family has to put up with me and my b-ball mania and my worrying, don’t they. And look, even though we’re running at warp speed at my house for two whole months, we’re all thinking about each other and how we can make this holiday spectacle turn out the best for everyone. I just want to make sure we enjoy the journey and not just the ending.” This is good, I thought. “... Maybe I’m just a little juiced because I want everyone in my family to look back at these days and have those fuzzy, blurry memories where everything is badly lit but happy. And you know, on Christmas Eve, when the kids finally pass out and my wife and I get to play Santa, and it all slows down. Man, if I could just bottle those few hours and then the energy when the kids explode out of their beds in the morning. That’s postcard warm, you know, and it makes it all worthwhile.” I drained my Gaelic and got up to go, looking around the table at the shredded scraps of paper Derek left for the waitress. I had shopping to do, plans to make, and not much time left to figure out how to enjoy the holidays. (Scott McLeod can be reached at info@smokymountainnews.com)