Sleigh Bells Ring

I'm far too busy making things out of sourdough to write, but my daughter, Carol Masterson, has graciously permitted me to publish a piece she wrote about Christmas last September.

SLEIGH BELLS RING

"So,” I announce to my family, "I would like to have a consumer-free Christmas this year." My husband says that whenever I start a sentence with "So," he knows that I'm about to declare a new law. When he hears the first ssss issue forth from my lips, he booms, "Hear ye, hear ye, her majesty is about to speak." After I'm finished with whatever new restriction I'm placing on my family, he booms again, "Hear ye, hear ye, her majesty has declared that henceforth, there shall be no consuming by this family to be assoicated with the holiday of Christmas!"

I've had this Little House on the Prairie Christmas fantasy for a while. As a kid, however, I loved a glitzy Christmas. We shopped to a soundtrack of "Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!" and "Winter Wonderland.” Andy Williams was as much a part of my Christmas iconography as Santa -- or Jesus himself. Our suburban Kansas City tree glowed with hundreds of tiny lights in gaudy colors and gold foil ornaments. After the present-opening frenzy of Christmas morning, we would leave the mountains of wrapping paper on the family room floor to go consume a gooey, sticky mess of cinnamon rolls and other assorted combinations of sugar and grease. Sitting around after our binges, I felt a deep emptiness. Somehow, Christmas had once again failed to deliver the promise of magic that the songs, decorations, and television specials promised. 

There is one Christmas special, however, from childhood that sticks with me: the Walton's Christmas which was actually entitled, "The Homecoming: A Christmas Story.” For those who are too young to know of the Walton's television series, it was about a writer (the character's name is John Boy) who grew up in rural Virginia during the Great Depression. These people had very little. The kids all slept piled up together in a big room and the grandparents lived in the house with them. They had so little money that each child received only one gift. I remember that John Boy got a new Big Chief tablet (again, for those who are young, these were tablets of newsprint writing paper with a red cover featuring a picture of an Indian chief) for his writing. He was thrilled. They sat around an enormous table eating, talking, and laughing -- and their lives as poor people seemed so much happier than mine. Same with Mary and Laura Ingalls with their corn husk dolls and oranges in their stockings. Same with Bob Cratchit and his family. They live in poverty and little Tiny Tim is lame, but they're having a much better time eating their scrawny goose dinner than poor old, rich old Scrooge is, alone with his money.

Still, my children hear the siren song of consumerism like all other American kids -- poor, rich American kids. My 10-year-old daughter is especially worried about this upcoming Christmas. I've told her that gifts will either be homemade or things like horseback riding lessons, going to a play or a dinner at a Thai restaurant -- experiences. Most of her friends already own cell phones and I-pads and my kid is looking at a Christmas of nothing but handmade things like knitted hats and experiences. I feel for her, I really do. 

I made a cartoon once that featured homemade gifts like god's eyes and teapot cozies. The objects were saying, "We're not as good as store-bought." It's true. Those of us who are adults probably appreciate a handmade gift -- but kids? For mine, at least, it's store-bought all the way.

I've been trying to interest other families in my consumer-free Christmas idea. So far, everyone has declined -- and all but one because of...would you like to guess? Go ahead. Something they feel that their children must have, otherwise the children will feel deprived and might possibly be creatively stunted. Here it is: Legos.

I, too, have been seduced by Legos. I remember telling my husband during a time when we were trying to save money that I absolutely, without-a-doubt NEEDED to spend money on Legos. Our son NEEDED them. Okay, let's get real again. My son needed Legos? No, he didn't even know what they were (he was two). I WANTED them for him. I wanted to inspire his creativity, yes. But mostly you know what I wanted? I wanted for him to be occupied so that I could get some shit done.

Karl Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses. I'm thinking that Legos might be the opiate of American children and their parents. I know, this is pretty radical thinking -- hypocritical, too, considering how much Lego is strewn throughout my house -- but hear me out, please. Legos are made from petroleum. They cannot be recycled. The basic sets that are just little bricks of differently colored plastic aren't so bad, as plastic items go, but the sets that create spaceships, the Hogwarts Castle, etcetera, they are really only fun once, maybe twice. After that, they stay put together as an object and the Lego addict (your child, my child) needs another fix. This time they might need the Star Wars Super Star Destroyer (priced at, no kidding, $399.99) and possibly the Star Wars Advent Calendar so that the force may be with them as they countdown to Christmas.

Here's a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche for all of us parents to think about: The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.

Here are a couple more Christmas memories I've collected from others: My sister remembers one of our Christmas trees from childhood, discarded at the curb, blowing down the street, used and forgotten. My good friend has a memory of leaving a holiday symphony performance with her family and having to walk past the line of homeless and their children who were waiting to eat what was perhaps their only meal of the day at a soup kitchen.

Christmas is supposed to be a celebration of the birth of Jesus -- someone who taught us that if someone wants to take our coat, we should give our cloak as well. What do you think his message would be for us today? Perhaps if someone wants to take our Lego Hogwarts Castle, we should give them the Star Wars Advent Calendar too?

Copyright 2013 by Carol Masterson