The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer:
“Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” barked out of the Magnavox as the Master Sergeant, kneeling, inserted silvery aluminum foil branches reverently into the silver wooden trunk of his brand new Evergleam, mostly aluminum Christmas Tree. “Made in Manitowoc. By Americans, by God!”
Eyebrow arched. “Thing’s an electrical death trap. Can’t have any lights, son.”
“No bubble lights?”
“Something better. A color wheel thing that sits on the floor.”
I helped Mom set out her chalkware manger figurines, a cast so scarred they resembled medieval relics. Our nativity crèche looked small, lost behind the presents, overshadowed by dad’s giant fake tree.
Christmas morning, the year before, I was awakened by the fleet of Strategic Air Command B-52 bombers warming their engines as they did every morning rehearsing their delivery of prompt and utter annihilation to the enemies of freedom and my beloved Santa Claus. With disappointment the Master Sergeant told me, “the Reds hate religion. They hate Christmas.”
The Master Sergeant told me about the Red Menace, the X-15 and nuclear destruction. We were all fighting communism. I didn’t say, “what about the baby who said we should all love our enemies and turn our cheeks?”
Seven-year-old me was confused. How could the commies hate Jesus when he talked like a communist, always preaching about sharing and loving your enemies and feeding everybody?
That was ’62, the year the Cuban missile crisis inspired Mrs. Weed to train us to hide under our school desks after we pledged our third grade allegiance to our mutual assured destruction, from sea to shining sea. Seven-year old me was confused. Would the North Pole survive Armageddon?
My brother, the medic, claimed in a letter from Vietnam that Tucson’s sand would turn to molten glass. We’d be radioactive for a gazillion years. What became of peace on earth, good will to men? “Peace through strength,” said the Master Sergeant.
“Peace is our profession,” claimed the Strategic Air Command.
I listened to SAC’s Christmas Eve news bulletins about sighting Santa and their jets escorting him. To protect him from the commies I hoped.
I inspected, and shook the wrapped presents with my name. This was so far back in time “A Charlie Brown Christmas” would not air for another three years, a long time for me to wait for Linus to explain what Christmas was really all about.
The Master Sergeant told us he believed it was about the baby who, “grew up to preach peace, and good will and was killed, and lives in Heaven forever with His dad, God, and Santa works for Him.”
And I believed I was getting lots of toys because my parents were sorry for their constant fighting. They stopped fighting for “Red Skelton’s Holiday Special,” “Bob Hope’s Millionth Christmas Special” and “King of Kings” only to bicker over the identity of the duet singing “Baby, I t’s Cold Outside” on the radio. “Wrong! They never sang together!”
The angry air raid sirens howled over Tucson every Saturday afternoon, drowning out my parents and reminding us to frantically search for a nearby school desk under which we’d be incinerated.
That Christmas Eve I wondered if the commies and President Johnson were going to keep bickering, eventually causing a nuclear fireball fight that would ruin Christmas. I also wondered, more importantly, would I get the Big Daddy Rat Fink model kit I lusted after?
I’d been good.
Christmas Day, I let my parents have their “Santa is real” fun. They swapped slippers, colognes and robes and behaved as though they came from Santa. “Well, the old boy got the color right. Too bad it’s too small, Santa.”
And the fight started. They quickly moved on to bickering over how to dispose of the shredded wrapping litter. “Don’t burn it!”
I watched “A Christmas Carol” on Christmas Eve. The parable of the repenting miser burrowed into my 8-year-old psyche. People can change. Maybe there can be peace on earth or at least in the living room.
The Master Sergeant had given us the coolest Christmas tree that year in spite of mom’s barbs about how real trees smell like Christmas and not aluminum. I fell asleep certain Scrooge would give away his fortune and become, probably, the most welcome guest of the holiday season, in all the best houses, next to the chalkware baby Jesus, of course, whose parables and beatitudes would become more dear to - and this young boy with every passing year.
