Ad aspera.

With a blizzard in the forecast and crazy people flying the not-so-friendly skies, I was lucky to get to Kansas on Christmas Eve. Now, after a few days here in the state I dearly love, I feel extremely lucky to be here. Surrounded by great people and endless opportunities to drink Free State Beer, I must confess that I have moments where I wonder why we ever left. And then I have to remind myself that the joy of coming back is rooted in the very fact that we moved on.

Today, we’re off to Yates Center—the hallowed ground that was once home to my grandparents. As much as I wish I could talk them in person, I’ll have to settle for a quick visit with their headstones.

Have a great day—wherever you are.

A wish for you.

I hope your Christmas feels as cozy and familiar as a Dean Martin holiday song. I hope your heater doesn’t crap out. I hope no one chants “fuck Christmas” over and over again in your direction. I hope you get your Super Nintendo AND your go-kart. I hope you see reindeer, black or otherwise. I hope you enjoy many bowls—the kind you eat from or otherwise. I hope your children don’t get detention for mentioning the “C” word. I hope that your real trees are beautiful and that your fiber-optic trees remain fiber-optical at least until New Years. I hope your silver shines. I hope Santa shows. I hope Jose Canseco doesn’t bring you a bar of soap, but if he does remember, it’s the thought that counts. Always. Merry Christmas. Thanks for visiting.

Collect them all.

Growing up in my family, having an appreciation for and basic knowledge of all American vehicles made before 1970 was a rite of passage. And since there’s very little a five-year-old can do with a real car, I started collecting die cast replicas to show my elders I was developing correctly.

This usually meant Christmas morning was filled with car toys. But one holiday things took an unexpected turn. The previous year, I’d been gifted a couple of models in a series called Ertl American Classics (or something like that). With roughly 25 in the bunch, I never expected to “Collect them ALL!” as the packaging suggested, but my Grandma and Grandpa Green had a different idea.

It all started with a single gift. It was a new car in the series. I was excited. Then I moved on to a shoebox. Inside, I found three more cars bunched together. I had goose bumps. I opened a few more, until when I realized my Grandparents had bought me every model in the collection. 25 of 25. It was a concept my undeveloped brain couldn’t quite comprehend. When I was finally finished stripping all the paper off of each one, I hugged everyone and then politely asked for some help getting them all up to my room.

I realize this is a cheesy story. But it’s almost Christmas and I think a little tolerance for cheese is in order. It might even be good for you.  Merry Christmas Eve, Eve. I hope you tear open something that makes you smile this year. Take that however you want…

Endangered species.

About ten years ago, I abruptly moved to the Bay Area. No job, nowhere to live and only a few flaky art students to call friends. It was pretty awesome—being young, free and stupid. So many experiences that led to so much growing up.

When I take a retrospective view, one thing that always makes me laugh is my friendly demeanor toward the homeless population. Back in those days, I genuinely felt bad for people and occasionally even believed their hard-luck stories. This made me an easy target. Which wasn’t always a bad thing.

Take, for example, one particular November evening when I was leisurely strolling through San Francisco. Just minding my own business and suddenly an older black guy appears in front of me wearing a pair of foam antlers on his head.

“I need a dollar, sir,” he says.

Not completely annoyed and somewhat interested how he was going to close the deal, I asked why.

“Well,” he said pointing to the foam antlers on his head, “I’m the last black reindeer!”

I laughed and dug into my wallet. I may have even given him two dollars—one because he asked for it and another for his explanation. A completely random encounter, but it’s stuck with me for years. And while I’ve become completely desensitized to people begging on the street, I’d probably stop and talk to the last black reindeer if I ever ran into him again.

About that go-kart.

Back when we still believed in flying reindeer, sleighs in the sky and the North Pole, it seemed there was no limit to what we could wish for and receive. We were not rich people by any means, but my parents went to great lengths to give us the things we wanted in the name of Santa. That is, until the year of the go-kart.

It all started with a visit to our relatives’ house in the country. Like a lot of Kansans around my hometown, they weren’t farmers, but they had a few acres, a few critters and, perhaps most impressive, a go-kart with a dirt track behind the house. Our first taste of driving anything gasoline powered that wasn’t a riding lawn mower, my brothers and I were dumbfounded by this set up. How could so much fun exist right outside your sliding glass door?

Fast forward to late November that same year. My middle brother announced that he was going to ask Santa for his very own go-kart. My folks tried to level with him. They said Santa would have trouble getting it down the chimney. My brother was sure he’d find a way. They said Santa might not be able to fit it on his sleigh. My brother argued that Santa never had problems loading his sleigh before. My parents finally called us all to the kitchen table. It was the closest thing to a Brady Bunch style family meeting we’d ever have.

They delivered the news carefully, explaining that technically Santa wasn’t real, but that the spirit of Christmas lived in our hearts. I’d been suspicious for a couple of years, but it was still hard to accept at first. I don’t remember what I was asking “Santa” for that year, but I suspect I probably got it anyway—with or without magic. And while the go-kart never happened, we all went on to enjoy Christmas that year. The funny thing is that my folks have property in Kansas now. Plenty of space for a go-kart track. Maybe my brother should give his Christmas wish another shot?

A bowl for mom.

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time wishing I was an adult. I suspect it drove most of the adults around me nuts. I was always trying to prove how grown up I was.

So, as you might suspect, this led to all sorts of I-want-to-be-an-adult behavior around the holidays. The nice part was that I wanted to get people gifts. The complicated part was that I didn’t have any money to buy the gifts I wanted to share. As usual, my parents worked out a solution by giving each one of us an allotted amount of money to buy presents for the family. So the madness began—not only did my folks have to take care of the real shopping, they also had to help us find things in our price-range that we could give each other on Christmas morning. All while keeping it a secret from the others.

One year, my dad was in charge of taking me out the get my gift for my mom. We went to the jewelry store where he bought her a pair of earrings. I pointed out a few diamond rings that I was interested in, but he said no. We visited various stores all over downtown Lawrence, but nothing we saw that day had the perfect balance of cheap and perfect-for-mom that I was looking for. I was still empty-handed when we finally packed into the car behind Woolworth’s.

We hit the grocery store on the way home. I obediently followed my dad through the aisles, wondering what I could possibly do for my mom for the holidays. Little did I know that all my worries were about to be washed away on aisle 8 at the Dillon’s on 6^th street. High on a shelf, in that weird section of the store where they sell cheap pots and pans, I spotted a crystal salad bowl. Although we didn’t eat salads all that much and my mom probably had plenty of bowls that would serve the same purpose, it seemed like the best gift on earth. And at $4.99, it was even within my budget.

I think my mom still has the bowl. If I remember right, she even uses it sometimes for big dinners at the house. I suppose if you consider all the years that have passed, that bowl was a pretty good gift—at least considering the circumstances.

In the olden days.

When I was a boy, Christmas wasn’t a taboo subject in public schools. As a matter of fact, the week leading up to the holiday break was filled with activities specifically designed to get us excited about the big day. This was usually the time of year we were charged with making a present for our parents. An assignment that was followed by a number of art projects. One year, I remember our teacher bringing in a huge load of clay. We were asked create whatever we felt like, paint it and then send it to the kiln to be baked—a process I found absolutely fascinating.

As the kid of two non-smokers, I made my folks a big, beautiful orange ashtray. At that time, smoking was still common and I suspected my parents didn’t smoke because they didn’t have an ashtray. By making one for them, they would finally be able to enjoy the smooth, delicious taste of Marlboro like my friends’ parents.

But something went wrong between my final creative presentation and the kiln. We’d been warned—if our walls were too thin, our pieces might not turn out. My ashtray didn’t turn out. When it finally made it back to my desk for wrapping, it was nothing more than a weird shiny orange lump with a couple of divots cut in the side. I gifted it anyway. I think my dad kept change in it on top of his dresser for years. Bless him for being a nice guy—or listening to my mom when she told him he couldn’t throw it away. It really was horribly ugly. They never took up smoking, but who knows what would’ve happened if I’d managed to make them a decent ashtray.

Save the trees.

One year, long before Cristi and I were married, we decided to host Christmas Eve dinner at our house. I would deep-fry a turkey and she would do the rest—leaving about twenty of my closest family members with nothing to do but mill around our tiny 600-square-foot house. I was excited to host—although I’m still not sure why.

But everything took a turn when I made my final trip to the grocery store before the big show. I noticed two lonely looking trees leaning against the side of the Dillon’s Food Store. One was missing a huge chunk of branches and the other was just ugly as hell. Naturally, I felt bad for them. But as I walked the aisles, my completely irrational connection to the neglected shrubs intensified. By the time I got to the checkout, I’d made up my mind—I was taking them home with me.

I offered $10 for the pair, but the checker could tell I was soft.

“$25,” she countered.

“$20,” I quickly snapped back, a little surprised at myself.

She yelled for a manager. An overworked guy with sweat stains appearing under his pits appeared. I wasn’t sure if she was kicking me out or getting approval for the sale.

“This guys wants those two trees out front for $20,” she said, nodding her head toward the window.

“Sold,” he replied as he quickly rushed away.

Like most good Kansans with garages full of useless junk, I had about six tree stands stashed in various places. Good thing, because I needed two. With no space in the house, I set them up in the front yard and covered them in lights and old, junky bulbs.

That night, when people started showing up for dinner, everyone wanted to know what compelled me to display two ragged old trees in the front yard. For once, I was at a loss for words. I never came up with a logical explanation. Even though dinner was great and everyone seemed to have a good time, saving those two trees from the dumpster behind Dillon’s brought more joy to my heart than any other Christmas activity that year.

There’s only one Super Nintendo.

I did most of my growing up in the late 80s and early 90s. A time marked by prosperity and good times, or so it seemed in our household. So, Christmas was an opportunity for us to hunt down the things we wanted, put them on a list and gather them for the year ahead.

One particular holiday season, my little brother had his sights set on a Nintendo. He launched his campaign in September and really dialed things up in mid-November. He posted lists on the refrigerator. He marked catalog pages. He managed to work Nintendo into just about every conversation he had with anyone in the family. Although he’d been informed that his one desire was too expensive for the Christmas budget, he was undeterred.

So, when Christmas morning finally rolled around, it wasn’t terribly shocking when he didn’t get the Nintendo he was hoping for. Instead, my folks bought him an odd hand-held computer baseball game that required about 14 D batteries. Needless to say, he was disappointed. Which manifested itself into anger. If I remember correctly, he eventually wound up in his room, facing the wall, cursing the world.

His tantrum worked. The next day, the whole family piled into the Astro minivan and drove to Wal-Mart. The baseball game was returned and a brand new Nintendo went into the basket. The one stipulation was that he had to share his new toy with us. He did—and within a couple of minutes we were like three zombies in front of the TV, hour after hour, playing Super Mario Brothers and Duck Hunt repeatedly until our thumbs were sore.

I suppose the moral of this story is that we really didn’t have any at the time. We were rotten kids. We saw a lot of commercials that told us we needed a Nintendo. We also had a couple of rich kid friends who told us we needed one as well. Looking back, my little brother had no choice but to fight for his right to get the thing he wanted and, in the end, he prevailed.

Merry Christmas, folks. No matter what you do this holiday, accept no substitutes.

Wake up.

The concept of Santa in my little kid brain was well beyond my little kid comprehension. From what I’ve heard, I was one of those obnoxious brats who asked a lot of questions and drove a lot of adults crazy—but when it came to a guy in a red suit flying around and giving out gifts, I was simply amazed. As the first child, untainted by older brothers, I believed. And as soon as I had the opportunity to pass it on to my siblings, I took a lot of pride in my leadership role.

Christmas 101 of sorts, I spent the week before the biggest holiday of the year explaining the basics, going through various Christmas-themed picture books and answering any questions they might have. But one year, yet again, I took things too far. With a long history of serious sleeping issues on Christmas Eve, I decided the three of us should stay in my room and wait for Santa. We’d been told that trying to “catch” him would wreck the whole thing and result in us getting nothing, but I wanted help listening for any sound that might give the guy away.

Our bedtime was 9. We were going absolutely nuts by 10:15. As much as I liked to pretend that I hated my little brothers, they were funny as hell and a lot cooler than me. So, we were having fun. I think my folks came in a couple of times and told us to keep it down, but I don’t remember them getting mad.

As the night dragged on, our anticipation continued to grow. We played with the toys in my room, but nothing seemed as interesting as what I suspected was under the tree downstairs. We looked at baseball cards and Garbage Pail Kids. We peeked out the window, but kept missing the sleigh. We tossed and turned and watched the clock.

Finally, with eyes wide open and absolutely no sleep to account for, the breaking point came at 4 AM. We busted into my parents room and begged for permission to go downstairs and open our presents. By 4:15 Christmas was over. I remember driving my radio controlled 4×4 truck through the living room as the sun slowly came up. It was probably the first sunrise I’d ever seen at that point in my life. Even though my parents were obviously irritated that we’d forced Christmas into the wee hours of the morning, it was one of my memorable.