We have a lot of Christmas traditions in my family.
Some have been around for decades while others have been revamped in recent years.
Decorating for Christmas used to entail me climbing onto a step stool, shoving aside dozens of hangars and old coats, then hoisting myself through a tiny opening in the back of a closet to get into a cubby-hole crammed with boxes filled with holiday dishes, ornaments and various other knick-knacks.
Somehow, the opening has shrunk the past few years and instead of humming “Jingle Bells” and “Here Comes Santa Claus” while climbing through, it’s now accompanied by colorful phrases not suitable for a Christmas carol.
This year, my 9-year-old grandson, Hampton, helped out, though Poppy still had to join him. Kneeling on the beams worked until my knees started to ache. Raising out of a squat resulted in my disappearing hairline getting pierced with nails jutting out from the roof.
“I shouted ‘Son of a bee’s wax’ and ‘fudgy wudgy’ in an effort to keep it G-rated.
Same thing goes for hanging outdoor lights.
Back in the day, I didn’t think anything of borrowing a neighbor’s extension ladder and stringing bulbs across the top gutter of our split-level.
About 15 years ago, I switched to a smaller ladder to hang the lights above our picture window, though that required balancing on the top rung while the bottom of the ladder sunk into the mulch and dirt from the front garden.
This year, our 40-year-old son, Kyle, took over the chore while Poppy stood back and took a few sips of spiked hot chocolate.
Meanwhile, Hampton and his brothers – Graham (7), Nixon (4) and Whit (16 months) – helped Mimi (Karen) hang the 700 ornaments we’ve collected over the years and drape tons tinsel on the tree. Actually, some of the tinsel landed on the tree. Most of it is in their hair.
We caved a year ago and bought an artificial tree. It looks real and taking it down afterward is a lot easier than yanking it out of a water-filled stand and dragging it through the den while leaving a trail of sticky needles.
Our indoor decorations also include a manger scene that was created for my late parents by dear family friend, the late Mrs. Ruth Maxwell, in 1963.
Ceramic figurines – sheep, camels, and the Three Wise Men – are arranged around Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus lying in a manger inside a rickety, wooden barn that somehow has remained intact after all these years.
Setting it up requires the retelling of a famous family story in which our daughter, Ashley, was asked what the Three Wise Men brought as gifts:
“That’s easy,” she said. “Gold, Frankincense … And Cumin.”
It would be a cute little tale except for the fact that Ashley, now 42, was 20 at the time.
Lord have Myrrh – cy.
Tradition also requires me to fill out a list for Santa, which Karen/Mimi/Mrs. Claus scans and then stuffs into the garish, red pocketbook with white feathers that her late aunt Jean Hober gave her in the 1980’s.
“Dear Santa, I have been a very good boy this year. If you could leave the following presents under my tree this year, it will be a very Merry Christmas. David.”
My top item the last few years has been a Corvette. My sister-in-law Peggy considers it a mid-life crisis, but that’s fine with me if I get to live to 134.
The list also includes a winter vacation home at Latitudes Margaritaville in Florida – Mele Kalikmaka – along with various golf-related items.
Karen has never provided me with her own list, leaving me to fend for myself for the 43rd consecutive year.
She has enough jewelry, so I occasionally try to be creative, usually with disastrous results.
One year I gave her a cute sweater adorned with lighthouses. Upon opening the gift, she rolled her eyes and informed me it was exactly like a sweater my mother owned.
Actually, her exact words, which are frequently recounted by Ashley, were … “Ugh. … lighthouses.”
Two years ago, I gave her an “Instant Pot.”
Not only has it never been used, the box has never been opened, nor moved. It is still in our den, in the exact same spot it was on Christmas morning of 2023.
Maybe this year I’ll put it in the cubby hole when I put back the dishes and decorations.
If I can fit through the opening without cursing and complaining.
“Fudgy, wudgy.”
David is a nationally recognized sports columnist who has covered Philadelphia and local sports for over 40 years. After 35 years with The Press, he has served as a columnist for 973ESPN.com and created his own Facebook page, Dave Weinberg Extra Points. Send comments to weinbergd419@comcast.net.
