Humbug?

I’m going to come right out and say it. I’ll risk epithets like “un-American” or worse. I know I fly in the face of tradition and custom, but don’t care. Go ahead and call me Scrooge or the Grinch.

Bah humbug! Ban Christmas!

Okay, okay. Don’t get so upset. I don’t actually mean “ban.” But this collective form of madness has got to stop.

We believe the myth, perpetuated by our advertising and consumer culture, that the success of the season depends on hours of shopping, spending money we don’t have on things nobody needs. The custom of exchanging elaborate gifts did not begin until the late 1800s, and now it’s an unbridled retail juggernaut.

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The naked statue

I can trace my childhood through the photos on the wall. Did I really have that terrible haircut? What was I thinking? Memories flood back to me as I walk through my grandmother’s small house in Lambertville, NJ. It is the last time I will be there.

The family has gathered for an informal memorial service. She passed away three weeks ago. Chairs are set up in the back yard, near the ping-pong table, first in rows, but then decided too official and changed to a large semi-circle.

Programs are printed and the service has the feel of a family talent show. My uncle Greg and cousin Jacob play the guitar and sing; I read my column; my dad tells a few stories. Most everyone takes a turn at the microphone to say or read something.

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