It is a total blanket of white outside my door and for the first time in 45 years, I am enjoying a truly White Christmas.
In 45 years, Christmas has gone from a spectacular of bows and carols and gifts to a more reasonable holiday, and I am not positive it is for the better, so let me go back and take stock.
Rewind to the 1960's.
On Christmas Eve, my old neighborhood would gather for the best party of the year. It would begin in the large circle that was the centerpiece of the "Hamlet." The large evergreen would be covered with lights by Mr. Mattson and we would have a place to sing carols. My best friend, Allen Manfuso and I would always be belting out the songs, and for a night, the neighborhood felt like a huge family.
Every Christmas Morning on Kerry Lane, my sisters and I would gather on the top of the stairs wondering if Santa had visited our house. We would rush down the stairs in anticipation of what was there. From simple ABC blocks in a wagon, to a shiny fire truck to a new bike with a banana seat, my parents, um, Santa rarely would disappoint. Gifts would always be accompanied with an amazing Coffee Cake from a secret recipe.
Christmas Eve or Christmas night meant Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding! We would all wind down in the family room and enjoy the joy.
Since I was a full 9 years younger than my nearest sibling, the stairs were a lot less crowded in the 70's with just me at the top of the stairs.
My grandfather, who played a wonderful Santa, was still spoiling me rotten though. His presents were the ones with flash; my parents providing the practical ones.
In the 80's, Christmases moved to Seabrook Island, SC, the new home of my parents. It was a wonderful place with my parents incredible house. Gifts turned to nice clothes and practical matters.
Then into the 90's... and my first Christmas away from home. I was working at CNN at the time... no, really working on Christmas Eve and Day. Luckily, the Irish Pub in CNN Center happened to be open on Christmas Eve and they were serving Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding. It wasn't Mom's, but it was the only piece of Christmas that felt normal.
1993. I worked Christmas Eve... my first Christmas Eve in Seattle. I was anchoring the local sports on Channel 11 (the main and weekend anchor took the night off, so they let me make my debut - or they just wanted the night off.) Little did I know that appearance would literally change my life.
On that night, a stranger was watching the news. She had rushed home to see this guy, who a co-worker was setting her up with on a blind date. She apparently liked what she saw.
One year later, that stranger and I would be spending our first Christmas as man and wife.
We have now had our eleven Christmases with children, and for the first time ever, quality won out over quantity.
My wife gave me such thoughtful gifts, some for play, some for memories, some for comfort. My gift to her was a simple love letter. I had been busy leading up to the snowstorms, then I got sick and then time ran out. I had a couple of chances to go buy stuff, but my words ended up meaning more than any present.
Her birthday is just three days away, and we are celebrating at Teatro Zinzanni, a place where dreams come true, and I told her in the letter that there may be surprises under the big top.
So from a holiday full of gifts to a simpler day full of love. Who knows what the future will bring, but this I know... it's the love that makes Christmas, not the presents. And we are all lucky for the love from each other and the love from above.
This marks the final blog of the "first century." The next blog will be entry 100 of a project I did not think would make it past entry ten.
To all you wonderful people who have joined me on the journey, love to you, and peace in the days ahead.
Oh, my wife just uncovered our traditional Christmas Coffee Cake, and I can smell it. It's the same one that my Mom baked every Christmas morning, and it is simply cinnamon heaven. Okay, maybe it's coming back to me.
Merry Christmas to you all!
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
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