Dreaming of a Write Christmas
By Jennifer Carter

Just after recovering from the turkey-induced coma of Thanksgiving and the exhaustion of the Black Friday shopping-spree-turned-marathon, when twinkling displays of holiday-themed excess that rival the Las Vegas strip begin to bejewel the frostbitten landscape, brightly colored envelopes filled with words of good cheer peek out from between the bills and catalogs that normally pile up in the mailbox, and checking the mail becomes fun again.

For me, it really is the most wonderful time of the year. I’ve always loved the season’s greetings, whether they are festooned with ribbons and fancy enough to resemble formal wedding invitations, or the result of desktop publishing complete with snowman clip art. No matter if it’s a shimmering snowy scene, glossy sprigs of holly, embossed sugarplum fairies, even Rudolph with a shiny red-foil nose — I say the more glitter, felt, and fuzz, the better.

Even more precious than the cards, though, are the messages I sometimes find tucked inside. Like eggnog, sweaters adorned with jingle bells, and caroling, brag sheets are a holiday tradition that people either love or hate.

Most are witty, funny, and more self-effacing than self-absorbed. Others are composed of the kind of boasting that ignites a spark of burning jealousy, making you want to tell that person to shove their letter right up their chimney.

Spending a little time with the Joneses during the holidays is sometimes unavoidable, but at least their notorious tall tales about looking forward to starting out the new year in sunny Rio de Janeiro or 4-year-old Becky’s mastery of the violin serve as comic relief from the hustle and bustle of preparing for the festivities.

Nowadays, with e-mail and the Internet keeping people hard-wired, and the world spinning faster than it’s ever spun before, it’s possible that the majority of cards are only mailed in response to having received one.

Admittedly, I’ve been guilty of that in Christmases past, but this year, I am determined to do a holiday mass-mailing of my own. In an effort to redeem myself and keep the tradition alive, I will pull the box of cards that I salvaged from an after-the-holidays clearance sale last year out of the closet, I will personalize a clever handwritten message for everyone on my list, and I will send them on their merry way.

Actually, knowing my tendency to procrastinate, I’ll probably put it off until the last minute and end up jotting the same silly sentiment in all of them, like: “Money is tight and times are hard — hope you enjoy your Christmas card!” (After all, it’s the thought that counts, right?)

For better or for worse, the holiday season is the only time I hear from some folks, and vice versa, but I hope Tweets, blogs, and Facebook never render old-fashioned cards and letters obsolete. Despite the intervening years and miles, being remembered by childhood friends, former colleagues, and far-flung relatives — even those who tend to over-share the details of their medical history — takes the edge off my bah-humbugs. Christmas comes early each time a card or letter arrives, and to receive one is to be grateful. 

The Race
By Michael Breedlove

We called it simply “The Race” at my house. Every December 25 — usually before the sun had even risen — my twin brother, Richard, and I would embark on a chaotic three-second sprint down our home’s hallway and into the living room. Once there, we’d find our reward for being good boys neatly arranged — not wrapped — under the Christmas tree (Santa apparently got lazy with the wrapping at my house).

To outsiders looking in, the race probably seemed simple enough — just one of the many rituals in a season full of traditions. But to us, it represented the most intense three seconds of the entire year. It usually went a little something like this:

Around 6 a.m., one of us would magically wake up and then spend the next few minutes trying to wake the other up. I found the most effective wake-up tactic was to jump from bed to bed and scream “PRESENTS” as loud as possible.

Once we were both awake, we’d crack open our bedroom door and peer down the hallway, wildly wondering if the Big Guy had gotten everything on our wish lists. At the end of the hall, without fail, we’d see Mom and Dad. I’m convinced neither one actually slept on Christmas Eve. Dad would always be holding a camcorder while Mom was preparing to give the almighty “go” signal.

Like two cars lining up at a drag strip, we’d anxiously take our mark. I was a pretty fast kid growing up, but Richard was too. This is important to note because whichever one of us got to the tree first would get to play with the best toy first. And whoever got to play with the best toy first would ultimately win Christmas (everything was a battle when you’re brothers … still is, I guess).

The dangers of losing the race were well-documented during the year of our fifth Christmas. As soon as Mom said “go,” I slipped and fell down, then watched helplessly as Richard sailed to victory. As a result, he was the first one to Alphie — a talking robot that played games, and the crown jewel of Christmas toys that year. He proceeded to hold Alphie hostage all morning while I was relegated to the other big toy: a crummy stuffed rabbit.

Needless to say, the race was a big deal, and each year was a little more cutthroat than the last. Bookshelves were kicked over. Pictures were knocked off walls. Family pets were trampled unmercifully. For three seconds, we became blurs of sibling rivalry and yuletide euphoria.

Like all races, though, this one eventually came to an end. By the time middle school rolled around, the race had all but vanished into the realm of Christmases past. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if we tried to race again as adults. Sadly, I think we’d end up stumbling to the coffeemaker instead of sprinting to the Christmas tree.

But thanks to our parents’ mission to videotape every second of our young lives, most of the races are now safely archived on a collection of VHS tapes. While Richard and I don’t run down the hall anymore, we’ll still pop in footage from years past just to see who won.

Deep down, I think we’re both remembering how special those early Christmases were — how the entire year seemed to revolve around that one magical morning. Deep down, I think we’re both wishing we could regain the spirit of those two crazy kids soaring up the hallway.

Of course, we’d never say those things out loud. In fact, there’s usually only one of us talking when we watch those old videos, and there are usually two words you can count on hearing: “I won.”

Perpetual Pony
By Lauren Rippey Eberle

The story varies a bit depending on who’s telling it, but in the index of Rippey family holiday memories, it’s one that always tops the deck: the year of the toy horse. The toy horse that wouldn’t turn off.

Providing for a trio of sisters, Santa could never go wrong with the latest girly trends — dolls, dress-up clothes, Easy Bake Ovens, or, in this case, a Princess Pony.

Of course, this wasn’t just any pony. It was a battery-powered, caramel-brown horse dressed in a decorative pastel ribbon tutu that, on command, trotted and galloped, neighed and whinnied. (Our version of the Red Ryder BB Gun jackpot.) It was a dream gift, especially to three girls who had just that summer each held their birthday parties at a dear friend’s horse farm.

To this day, we cannot remember who the true recipient of the 6-inch-tall equine wonder was. (To girls who still regularly shop in each others’ closets, this is a small point.) But nonetheless, Princess Pony was passed from hand to hand as we patiently took turns combing her mane, smoothing her ribbons, and pressing her buttons.

Thus began the soundtrack to Christmas day: Neigh, neigh, whinny, whinny, trot, trot, gallop, gallop. Neigh, neigh, whinny, whinny, trot, trot, gallop, gallop. Rinse, repeat.

As the morning moved on and we had more toys to tend to, Princess Pony was eventually forgotten, buried under presents gifted from our especially generous Santa while the frantic ripping of wrapping paper and giddy squeals of joy drowned out all other sounds.

It wasn’t until after we’d reached the bottom of our piles and collapsed in a state of Christmas-morning euphoria that someone noticed a muffled noise. A subtle neigh, neigh, whinny, whinny, trot, trot, gallop, gallop coming from beneath a pair of brand-new pajamas.

Carefully, as if uncovering a potentially dangerous treasure, my brave sister lifted the edge of the flannel pants, revealing Princess Pony on her side, four hooves in perpetual motion, moving like a dog caught dreaming about a chase. Dropping the cover in a dramatic panic, my sister yelled for Mom, who swept in heroically in search of “Off.”

Only, it didn’t work. Princess Pony persisted with as much gumption as she began, neigh, neigh, whinny, whinny, trot, trot, gallop, gallop. We all stared, wide-eyed, for a moment, until Mom opted to pull the desperate stop: Princess Pony’s batteries, which, to our dismay, did nothing to slow her noisy notions.

For what felt like an hour — but I’m sure was only a minute — we watched this performance, waiting for her to take her final trot. When she didn’t, we did what any logical little ladies would do: We ran to the basement and buried Princess Pony in an old toy box, where her never-ending neighing went from out-of-ear-shot to out-of-mind.

Now that we’re grown, Santa’s gifts are a bit more practical — money, clothes, instruments, and cell phones. Gone are the days of stashing fresh packs of AA batteries and a mini tool kit under the tree in anticipation of “assembly required.” Gone, too, are the worries of mechanical malfunctions that send the family into confused chaos.

My engineer husband can explain that Christmas’ pony problems using verbiage about capacitors and electric shock. But I like to think that it was a bit of holiday magic, blessing our home with a little extra Christmastime wonder.

It’s my hope that your holidays are filled with magical moments as well.