As the oldest of eight, I celebrated Christmas with the youthful exuberance of any child. My father was a white-collar salesman who brought home blue-collar wages. My mother had her hands full with a growing brood.
We passed through periods of poverty. We had so few family possessions that at one point there was a picnic table in the front room and mattresses in the bedrooms.
He finally arrived near midnight with two bags full of groceries and fixed us hamburgers. We ate voraciously, both my parents making sure we went to be with full tummies.
Despite our many challenges that we overcame through the years as we progressed economically, there was never a dearth of presents at Christmas and our stockings were will filled to capacity, apples and oranges the biggest items, but there would be a tiny toy or two.
I once called my mother to the front window and we spotted the outline of Santa Claus and his reindeer etched against the moon.
I don't have any idea the sacrifices my parents made to assure the holidays were a special time for us, but they never failed. And the turkey dinner, my father's specialty, was second to one.
When people find themselves depressed at Christmas, these memories are a double-edged sword that leave wounds that still bleed in one's heart.
I wish I had been more like my father as I think of my failed marriages and the suffering my children and step-children endured as a result of my penchant for selfishness.
I try to overcome my pessimism by remembering the profound love my mom and dad experienced together as there was no tawdry temptation or cheap thrill that would have ever threatened the beauty and sacredness of the family.
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