<christmas memories>

Christmas comes but once a year, except when it doesn’t come at all. Until I was six and my brother was three, my family celebrated Christmas. Then we didn’t. For six years, I had a tree and Santa Claus and presents. Then I didn’t.

I suspect that one of my grandmothers had been visiting around holiday time. And that, after blinking uncomprehendingly at the surrounding Christian imagery, she had a word or two with my father.

It was fun to be the only kid in school who didn’t celebrate Christmas. Especially after having observed it during those important formative years. I felt like a member of the Addams Family.

"I got a Schwinn," Roy Rigie said.

"I got P.F. Flyers, a basketball, a hoop, and a train set," Bobby Fiesler said.

"We don’t celebrate Christmas," I solemnly announced.

The other kids blinked. It was as if I’d dragged a stinking corpse into the middle of a picnic lunch. Then they went back to jabbering about the toys they’d received.

:::

When I was nineteen and in college, my then-girlfriend Gretchen invited me to her parents’ farmhouse for a real Ohio Christmas. The family kept a horse and a pig. The pig, whose name was Wilbur, had been bought as a pet, to protect him from the slaughterhouse. I’d only seen pigs and horses on TV, and was amazed at their size in real life.

The horse knew I was afraid of him. I was standing there, tentatively petting his huge head, when he lunged at me, teeth bared. I shrieked as he bit down. When he again reared his head, he had my jacket pocket in his teeth. The family laughed and laughed.

They made us sleep in separate bedrooms, even though they knew we were living in sin at that devil’s playground known as Indiana University. Gretchen had neglected to ask her parents before inviting me. Her mother was okay, but her father refused to speak to either of us for the duration. Merry Christmas.

Some other kids our age were staying in the house, and the bunch of us went to town one night, largely to get away from Gretchen’s father’s silence. While we sat in some bar or malt shop — I don’t remember which — it began to snow heavily. Soon it was a blizzard. The wipers were out in Gretchen’s sister’s car, so I leaned out the passenger window the whole drive back, scraping snow off the windshield with my hand.

Gretchen and I broke up after four years together, and after publicly announcing our engagement. I loved her deeply and wonder what became of her.

:::

When I was 29, my brother Pete and his then-girlfriend Cindy, and my then-girlfriend Eva and I traveled to Pittsburgh to spend the holiday with my parents. Eva and Cindy and I were living in Washington, DC at the time. Eva and Cindy were brilliant women who had been best friends until my brother moved to town and began seeing Cindy. At times the four of us were like a family; at other times, the two women were feuding and my brother and I were caught in the middle. But this was a time of truce and maybe even happiness.

Eva had bought matching orange-and-green Christmas shirts for the four of us, and we all wore them on Christmas Day. Before arriving, we’d spent days finding just the right gifts for my parents and each other. It was just what normal people would do.

My mother must have been coming down with her illness. Either that, or she was suffering from depression. Looking back, it’s hard to know. Whatever the reason, she was unable to find the will to buy presents for us. My parents loved the gifts we gave them, and they saw the pleasure we took in giving presents to each other, but for some reason the syllogism did not close.

My parents had created two identical piles, one for each couple. There was a $200 check for me, and a $200 check for my brother. There was a $50 check for my girlfriend, and a $50 check for my brother’s girlfriend. Money talks, and what it said was not pretty, as our girlfriends made sure we knew that night.

Also in the pile was a blank videocassette for my brother and Cindy, and a blank videocassette for Eva and me. "So you can record movies," my mother said. Later, upstairs, I found a carton of blank videocassettes my Dad had bought himself. It was a carton of 20, but there were 18 in the box.

Today Cindy is married to a man named Jack, and living in LA with their daughter. My brother lives in London with his wife Mandy. I loved Eva deeply and wonder what became of her.

:::

For several years, I’ve been celebrating Christmas with Joan’s family in Lodi, California, an hour’s drive from San Francisco. I love them and these trips are always good.

Joan’s family members tell each other what they want for Christmas and then get it for each other. These requests can be very specific. Amanda wants a certain CD, and that’s what she gets. Joan’s Dad wants a particular type of sweater, and that’s what he gets. They write their wishes down as if they are ordering products from a retailer. I used to tell Joan I found this tradition a little cold and bizarre.

"Shouldn’t you surprise each other with gifts? Isn’t that the fun of it?" I used to say.

Like I would know.

:::

Last year Joan left for San Francisco a week ahead of me. I was to meet her there a few days before Christmas. Then she and her brother Dirk and I would drive to Lodi on Christmas Day. Same plan as always. I'd also arranged to hook up with my San Francisco-living web friends Heather and Derek and Webchick.

But in order to launch my business the following January, I ended up giving notice at my job a few weeks before Christmas. Which meant I had to stay in New York and work through New Year’s Eve. I would not be with Joan and her family for Christmas, nor for Y2K, the biggest New Year’s Eve in a thousand years.

On Christmas Eve I worked at my dot-com job, and on Christmas Day I worked on setting up my company. Around one in the morning, I went out to buy cigarettes at the corner store that never closes. The employees there didn't get Christmas either.

On New Year’s Eve I was finishing up the Happy Cog site so I could launch it at midnight. I phoned Joan at Y2K or she phoned me, but our conversation did not last long because she was at a noisy party. Around one in the morning, I once again paid my respects to the corner store. It was filled with drunks, and it finally occurred to me that I had worked through the holiday and been alone.

:::

This year my Mom died after a long illness, and my Dad is at loose ends. He is coming here after Christmas to spend a week with us. I am trying to get as much work done as possible before he arrives. This is not easy, because Joan and I have been sick for a month.

On the phone, my Dad told me about buying an 800 mHz Pentium for my half-brother Ty, the surprise child of his winter years, whose existence he learned about as my mother lay in the last phase of her illness. Then he described the good time he had with my brother Pete, who’d flown in from England to spend two days with him last week.

"I gave Pete my old digital camera," my Dad said.

"Doesn’t he need a computer for that?" I said.

"No, you can hook digital cameras up to printers, too," my Dad said.

My brother has no printer, but I didn’t point that out.

"Now, what do you want for Hanukah-Christmas-New-Year's?" my Dad said. (The holiday we never celebrate has morphed into Hanukah-Christmas-New-Year's. If my Dad and I live another ten years, my January birthday and Groundhog's Day will be added to the hyphenated thing we never celebrate.)

"I was thinking of giving you a check for $100," my Dad said.

"No, that's okay," I said.

I suppose he is as lost as I am, and I suppose that's why I'm lost.

:::

In Rockefeller Center, skaters skate and the big tree lights up at night. Snow is falling and Joan is sleeping after a morning visit to the doctor. Last night Joan said if you want Christmas let's do it. Take care of yourself, Joan said. On Christmas Day this year, our friends Leigh and TJ, and maybe Fred, and maybe Kathleen, will be with us for a small celebration. I am looking forward to it.