Image by Yatheesh Gowda from Pixabay
When I was growing up, DVR’s did not exist. Neither did VCR’s or cable. Instead we had a black and white TV that was plugged into an outlet and had a metal thing attached to the back of it called an antenna. We got three network channels and PBS (which the whole family agreed didn’t really count). And to top it all off, those networks actually went off the air after their late night news shows or The Tonight Show. Seriously. They played the national anthem and then went to fuzz and white noise.
Now that I have a full collection of my favorite old (and new) movies and can watch them anytime I please, I find I don’t really want to watch the Christmas ones. At least not until they’re coming back on regularly scheduled TV. Having to wait for seasonal shows was part of what made my childhood Christmases magical. Sure, the calendar told us that December was here and school letting out was exceptionally awesome. But nothing sparked the joy of Yuletide anticipation like seeing the announcement that Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer would be on Friday at 8! Or that A Charlie Brown Christmas would follow right after.
A simpler time
Yes, it was a simpler and less hectic time. But it wasn’t just that; instead what I think I enjoy most about letting the shows come to me is that it reminds me there is a time and place for certain things. As stupid as it may sound, the Christmas TV schedule was like a ritual. They were the same shows for years and years, yet we never missed them. We already knew that Charlie Brown would pick the neglected tree, Rudolph would save the day, and that Frosty would be back again someday. But it just felt so good to watch them. Not just for the entertainment (who didn’t love Snoopy?) but also for what they preceded: the unparalleled thrill of Christmas morning.
And even though my parents weren’t rich, they never failed to deliver massively for the Yule. We awoke to bikes some years, giant stuffed animals, dolls, chemistry sets, and a wide variety of toy guns (even machine guns, my favorite). Yes, my Dad’s older sister always gave us underwear and socks, but that was okay because right next to those presents were the Spirograph, the Etch-a-Sketch, or the Lite-Brite. Sometimes we got things we had specifically asked for like a pup tent and a Coleman stove and lantern (my closest brother and me liked to camp in our backyard). But even if we hadn’t made special requests, Christmas always met our expectations. It was always magical.
We were kids
Those old TV specials (and I’m including the Christmas episodes on shows like Carol Burnett and The Partridge Family) were the welcome wagon of the holidays. When they started to air, it meant that stores would fill their windows with seasonal displays and houses would don their wreaths and strings of colored lights (no one had just white ones like you see so much today). In fact, seeing homes and yards dressed in Christmas decor was almost as much fun as ripping presents open (well, at least a distant second). We would ride our bikes for miles to see the houses with the most lights.
It wasn’t just that the TV shows were heartwarming or that the decorations were enchanting that made those Christmases special. It was really because we were kids. We didn’t realize how much the adults in our worlds colluded to create the beauty and the spectacle that made the whole season so much fun. Teachers decorated classrooms; mail carriers wore Santa hats; retailers decked their aisles and windows. And sure, Sears or Penneys did it to sell toys and everything else, I’m not disputing that. But to a kid, that didn’t matter. It was awesome because we didn’t know how it was created. And we didn’t want to know. It was there, it was whimsical, and it was wonderful.
Someone had to make it happen
I didn’t really figure that out until the first Christmas after I’d moved away from home. Of course I knew that parents bought and wrapped the presents. I knew that stores built winter wonderlands to attract customers and make money. But it was still a special time of year, even without the myth of Santa Claus and his elves and reindeer. Being on my own, however, made it different. Not only did I have to put up the tree, I had to have a tree. And the decorations. If I wanted our apartment to be decked out for the holidays I had to do the decking. It was surreal to realize that the beauty, the joy, the fun of the season wasn’t magic. It was effort.
If we want anything to be special and celebrated, we’re going to have to exert the effort. In fact, the effort (especially if it’s a communal one) is the very definition of a holiday. Whether it’s New Year’s Day or Labor Day. Kwanzaa or Thanksgiving. And that doesn’t necessarily mean it has to be expensive or commercialized. But the rituals, the meals, and the traditions we create around our special days are what make them memorable and anticipated. They are what make us perk up when we realize, “It’s December 1st; Rudolph should be on soon!”
It’s the little things
Can sweet but silly little TV shows really convey the warmth and joy of a special season? Uh, yeah. When they are part of that whole fabric of decided effort and deliberate ritual, you bet. They are not on the same level as midnight mass or volunteering at a soup kitchen. But they still have an important and welcome role to play in making Christmas so much fun.
And indeed magical.