It’s almost Christmas and I’m happy. I used to go complete robot cattle stampede when it came to celebrating. I’d purchase a new, live tree every December, decorate the pants off it then plant it outdoors somewhere in January. Sometimes it would rest on the property, sometimes I’d cart it out to some lonesome canyon where Nature stopped short of perfect feng shui and could really use a baby Christmas tree. My daughter’s sneaking up on 23 and we still drive to our secret spots to inspect how our conifers are doing. Some are still around, 40 feet high now.

My dear folks weren’t much on acknowledging 12/25, The Lord’s Birthday. Dad grew up dirt-farm poor and, as a little boy during The Depression, an apple was the only thing Santa would bring. Insult to injury, they lived in an apple orchard. Mom was visited by darker, non-holiday elves with accusing whispers and sharp teeth. We didn’t decorate, sing carols nor exchange presents. I did sit on the lap of a department store Santa or two. When they’d ask what I wanted for Christmas, I’d whisper, “Can you possibly get me out of here?” I made a decision in my early 20s that I’d change the end of my own story and make the Big Whoop-Tee-Doo out of Christmas. If anything, I’d celebrate for myself. As an adult, I made sure my parents had a proper Christmas. That annoying one-liner about it’s better to give than to receive? It’s true. Mom and Dad would light up like — well — Christmas — opening presents and sitting in a festive house, complete with eggnog, lights, tinsel, crackling fire and a proper stuffed........

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