Welcome back to Ancient Wisdom, our weekly series in which writers over 70 tell us how they are aging gracefully. Last week, Jay Neugeboren, 87, explained why, at his age, “routine is a condition of survival.” This week, Joe Nocera, 73, writes about why it took him so long to get Christmas right.
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When I recall the Christmases of my childhood, I can’t help but wince a little. It’s not that they weren’t magical; they surely were. I can picture in my mind’s eye coming down the stairs—no, racing down the stairs—with my eight brothers and sisters, all of us pushing our way into our small living room, and looking for a piece of white cardboard with our name on it.
That’s where our individual stack of presents would be: bicycles and wooden trains; toy trucks and Play-Doh; Hula-Hoops and Lincoln Logs and cowboy and Indian getups, complete with cap guns. (Hey, it was the 1950s.) The lights on the tree would be on, and the cookies left for Santa half eaten. We would scream with delight as we ripped open each present, and then show them to our “surprised” parents, who beamed with their own delight. We kids fought a lot growing up, but never on Christmas morning.
So why do I wince now? Partly, it’s because I understand what it took for my parents to make Christmas happen for us. Until we fell asleep Christmas Eve, the living room was bare but for the tree. The next morning, all the toys had been assembled, and wrapped, and placed into nine separate, labeled piles. I doubt they got an hour’s sleep that night.
