Have yourself a merry little Christmas/ It may be your last/ Next year we may all be living in the past. Have yourself a merry little Christmas/ Pop that champagne cork/ Next year we may all be living in New York/ No good times like the olden days/ Happy golden days of yore/
Dec 22, 2023Liked by Serge Bielanko, Arle Bielanko
Christmastime is here again!
Christmastime is here again!
Christmastime is here again!
Christmastime is here again!
Ain’t been ‘round since you know when!
Christmastime is here again!
O-U-T spells “out”.
I love Christmas. I understand not everyone does. I understand it can be a very difficult time for folks. My wife, for example. Her Christmas memories are *very* different from mine. Her childhood holidays were less than idyllic. Too much booze, too many out-of-the-blue rage-ups, no sense of familial hearth-and-home, an exacerbated as she and her sister became adults and the family table became a drunken round of who could out-sarcasm/cut/hurt who. So my wife’s holiday experience is much more a matter of simply surviving the season than snuggling into it. Which is my thing.
I love Christmas. Did I mention that. I dig the tropes. The warm fire glow, throwing its orange light against the dark wood; the lights on the tree; seeing your convex reflection in a red glass Christmas ball. The music. Not all, mind you. But the Bing and Nat and ol’ blue eyes and the collection of big band Christmas recordings that remind me of a time before my time, but still close enough for me to have *almost* touched. The Christmas movies. Again, not all. A lot of the Christmas-movies-as-money-making-machine (pretty much every one since “Elf”, twenty years ago) I can absolutely do without. And Hallmark? Hell, no! But “The Bishop’s Wife”? “Remember The Night”? “Miracle On 34th St.”? The films from before my time? Just heap them on. Let me swim in their nostalgic stew. “A Christmas Story”? Absolutely. Telling a tale that comes from that magical, innocent time before my time? Yes, please. And I was possibly the least likely age — 23 — for that film to have hit, but hit it did. Childhood Christmas. It’s universal. I remember so many from my own childhood. I can recall at least one specific moment from every Christmas since I was four years old. I won’t bore by listing each here. But believe me, they’re in here with me.
My son—married with a 5-month-old son of his own— has his own set of Christmas blues. His mother and I divorced a little shy of thirteen years ago, and he tells me his holidays haven’t been the same since. The “magic circle” of our little family of five — any time, even during the worst of times, the five of us were together things worked, but take just one of us out of the equation and things were shitshow horrendous — had been broken/the warm glow of our family holidays a dying ember. I’ve explained that those last few years, and that last Christmas in particular, his mother and I were f*cking MISERABLE. I remember that final Christmas of our marriage sitting numb amidst her family thinking/knowing it would be my last Christmas spent with these people/this family. And while my son understands this intellectually, he will say, “but you kept Christmas a good time for us. Cutting down the tree. Decorating it. Decorating the house.” But at what cost? I tell him. What individual trauma for your mother and I? Or, at the very least, for me. (And to be clear, my ex wanted the divorce more than I did; I finally just capitulated; “so do I”). I tell my son that the joy of Christmas changes as you get older. I tell him he’s now charged with creating lovely, warm, Currier-and-Ives holiday memories for *his* child. We'll see.
So Christmas has it complications here, too. But still I love it. Despite the somewhat lack of spirit some members of my family are dealing with. How do I maintain my love of Christmas? I don’t know. I mean, I do, but I don’t know. It’s a choice. It’s knowing that there is some magic out there. Real magic.
Two stories of Christmases past that keep my faith in the spirit alive — and I am in no way a religious individual. I enjoy Christmas Eve mass when I am able to go for all the holiday trappings. The alter decked out in pine boughs; the giant sized nativity that recalls the much more modest ones I grew up with nestled at the foot of the tree; the carol’s being sung. But I digress. We’ll start with Christmas 1997. If lost my job in social work almost two years earlier — managed care was coming in and the agency I worked for wanted people with Masters degrees in my position, and there I was without even a single college credit; don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out — so I’d fallen into the only career I was qualified for, which was retail. I managed a video retailer in the local mall for an embarrassingly low salary, even less than I was making working for that non-profit social work agency. And my wife was pissed. At a lot of things. But mostly at me. And she told me that we couldn’t afford Christmas presents for our kids and it was pretty much my underachieving fault. And it was a knife in my heart, because, you know, they were my kids and it was Christmas. I mean, Christmas, ffs!! And then my best friend and his wife, having been informed by my wife of my inability to provide for my own kids, cashed in some stocks they had and gifted us with money so we could get our kids presents. People doing for others without any expectation of recompense other than friendship. The Christmas spirit.
Let’s go back a few years. Christmas 1994. I’m still working in social work and I’ve become friends with a very young man and his equally young gf. They have a one year old son who was a surprise to them both and are living in a basement apartment that may have some black mold issues. He just came to work at the residence I supervise, and they are just scraping by. Just. But when we get our Christmas bonus, about a week's pay, he’ll be able to buy some Christmas gifts for his wife and son, and maybe his mom and teenaged brothers. And at our agency Christmas party our new Executive Director jokes about the bonus checks being in the mail. Ha! Ha! Bonuses he’s chosen not to give. Without telling anyone. And my friend and I, and every other underpaid individual working to help our psychiatrically disabled charges, keep checking our mailboxes daily, looking, with increasing desperation for that check. Finally, I ask the ED straight out, when are the checks coming? Which is when I find out. Well, why the f*ck would you joke about it?? He shrugs and says he thought we all understood he was joking. Right. Great. So, my friend is out on the balls of his ass, wondering what to do for his one year old son. Maybe glue macaroni to a stick for the mid to play with? That Christmas Eve my wife and I stop by their apartment on the way to my mom’s, to drop off a bottle of wine and share a few minutes of friendship. Now, this young guy was also a volunteer fireman, and while were chatting in the very sparse basement apartment a knock comes on the door and in come a half dozen, maybe more, volunteer firemen loaded with gifts and food. Enough food for a month. Toy fire engines and stuffed animals and one of those small plastic tricycles. A toy-department’s-worth of presents. Outside of “It’s A Wonderful Life” I’ve never seen such an altruistic outpouring. These guys took time from their own families to give these folks a Christmas. I thought these things only happened in movies. And yet, here it was, as truer expression and example of the Christmas Spirit as I have ever, and likely ever will, experienced.
There are ups and there are downs. And they vary from family to family, person to person. But good does exist in the world. Pure good. I’ve seen it. Never lose faith (and I’m not taking about religious faith, but faith in the possibility of goodness in people).
Merry Christmas to you and Arle, and Blake and Henry and Milla and Charlie and Piper. May your 2024 be everything you wish. Peace and love. 🎄🎅🏼
There is a movie in this one. ❤️
Christmastime is here again!
Christmastime is here again!
Christmastime is here again!
Christmastime is here again!
Ain’t been ‘round since you know when!
Christmastime is here again!
O-U-T spells “out”.
I love Christmas. I understand not everyone does. I understand it can be a very difficult time for folks. My wife, for example. Her Christmas memories are *very* different from mine. Her childhood holidays were less than idyllic. Too much booze, too many out-of-the-blue rage-ups, no sense of familial hearth-and-home, an exacerbated as she and her sister became adults and the family table became a drunken round of who could out-sarcasm/cut/hurt who. So my wife’s holiday experience is much more a matter of simply surviving the season than snuggling into it. Which is my thing.
I love Christmas. Did I mention that. I dig the tropes. The warm fire glow, throwing its orange light against the dark wood; the lights on the tree; seeing your convex reflection in a red glass Christmas ball. The music. Not all, mind you. But the Bing and Nat and ol’ blue eyes and the collection of big band Christmas recordings that remind me of a time before my time, but still close enough for me to have *almost* touched. The Christmas movies. Again, not all. A lot of the Christmas-movies-as-money-making-machine (pretty much every one since “Elf”, twenty years ago) I can absolutely do without. And Hallmark? Hell, no! But “The Bishop’s Wife”? “Remember The Night”? “Miracle On 34th St.”? The films from before my time? Just heap them on. Let me swim in their nostalgic stew. “A Christmas Story”? Absolutely. Telling a tale that comes from that magical, innocent time before my time? Yes, please. And I was possibly the least likely age — 23 — for that film to have hit, but hit it did. Childhood Christmas. It’s universal. I remember so many from my own childhood. I can recall at least one specific moment from every Christmas since I was four years old. I won’t bore by listing each here. But believe me, they’re in here with me.
My son—married with a 5-month-old son of his own— has his own set of Christmas blues. His mother and I divorced a little shy of thirteen years ago, and he tells me his holidays haven’t been the same since. The “magic circle” of our little family of five — any time, even during the worst of times, the five of us were together things worked, but take just one of us out of the equation and things were shitshow horrendous — had been broken/the warm glow of our family holidays a dying ember. I’ve explained that those last few years, and that last Christmas in particular, his mother and I were f*cking MISERABLE. I remember that final Christmas of our marriage sitting numb amidst her family thinking/knowing it would be my last Christmas spent with these people/this family. And while my son understands this intellectually, he will say, “but you kept Christmas a good time for us. Cutting down the tree. Decorating it. Decorating the house.” But at what cost? I tell him. What individual trauma for your mother and I? Or, at the very least, for me. (And to be clear, my ex wanted the divorce more than I did; I finally just capitulated; “so do I”). I tell my son that the joy of Christmas changes as you get older. I tell him he’s now charged with creating lovely, warm, Currier-and-Ives holiday memories for *his* child. We'll see.
So Christmas has it complications here, too. But still I love it. Despite the somewhat lack of spirit some members of my family are dealing with. How do I maintain my love of Christmas? I don’t know. I mean, I do, but I don’t know. It’s a choice. It’s knowing that there is some magic out there. Real magic.
Two stories of Christmases past that keep my faith in the spirit alive — and I am in no way a religious individual. I enjoy Christmas Eve mass when I am able to go for all the holiday trappings. The alter decked out in pine boughs; the giant sized nativity that recalls the much more modest ones I grew up with nestled at the foot of the tree; the carol’s being sung. But I digress. We’ll start with Christmas 1997. If lost my job in social work almost two years earlier — managed care was coming in and the agency I worked for wanted people with Masters degrees in my position, and there I was without even a single college credit; don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out — so I’d fallen into the only career I was qualified for, which was retail. I managed a video retailer in the local mall for an embarrassingly low salary, even less than I was making working for that non-profit social work agency. And my wife was pissed. At a lot of things. But mostly at me. And she told me that we couldn’t afford Christmas presents for our kids and it was pretty much my underachieving fault. And it was a knife in my heart, because, you know, they were my kids and it was Christmas. I mean, Christmas, ffs!! And then my best friend and his wife, having been informed by my wife of my inability to provide for my own kids, cashed in some stocks they had and gifted us with money so we could get our kids presents. People doing for others without any expectation of recompense other than friendship. The Christmas spirit.
Let’s go back a few years. Christmas 1994. I’m still working in social work and I’ve become friends with a very young man and his equally young gf. They have a one year old son who was a surprise to them both and are living in a basement apartment that may have some black mold issues. He just came to work at the residence I supervise, and they are just scraping by. Just. But when we get our Christmas bonus, about a week's pay, he’ll be able to buy some Christmas gifts for his wife and son, and maybe his mom and teenaged brothers. And at our agency Christmas party our new Executive Director jokes about the bonus checks being in the mail. Ha! Ha! Bonuses he’s chosen not to give. Without telling anyone. And my friend and I, and every other underpaid individual working to help our psychiatrically disabled charges, keep checking our mailboxes daily, looking, with increasing desperation for that check. Finally, I ask the ED straight out, when are the checks coming? Which is when I find out. Well, why the f*ck would you joke about it?? He shrugs and says he thought we all understood he was joking. Right. Great. So, my friend is out on the balls of his ass, wondering what to do for his one year old son. Maybe glue macaroni to a stick for the mid to play with? That Christmas Eve my wife and I stop by their apartment on the way to my mom’s, to drop off a bottle of wine and share a few minutes of friendship. Now, this young guy was also a volunteer fireman, and while were chatting in the very sparse basement apartment a knock comes on the door and in come a half dozen, maybe more, volunteer firemen loaded with gifts and food. Enough food for a month. Toy fire engines and stuffed animals and one of those small plastic tricycles. A toy-department’s-worth of presents. Outside of “It’s A Wonderful Life” I’ve never seen such an altruistic outpouring. These guys took time from their own families to give these folks a Christmas. I thought these things only happened in movies. And yet, here it was, as truer expression and example of the Christmas Spirit as I have ever, and likely ever will, experienced.
There are ups and there are downs. And they vary from family to family, person to person. But good does exist in the world. Pure good. I’ve seen it. Never lose faith (and I’m not taking about religious faith, but faith in the possibility of goodness in people).
Merry Christmas to you and Arle, and Blake and Henry and Milla and Charlie and Piper. May your 2024 be everything you wish. Peace and love. 🎄🎅🏼
Thanks so much for this, Tom. Merry Christmas!!! 🎅🏻
Merry Christmas my friend! And thank you for the 52 (more or less) gifts left under my Friday morning tree. Keep 'em coming.....
This was absolutely amazing and wonderful and powerful and weird and sublime. Like most of your writing, Serge. It floors me.
Thank you.
Thank you so very much, Conni. Happy New Year!