Skipping Christmas Revisited

If I remember correctly, and at the mature age of seventy I’m still remembering most things, I wrote this little novel for two reasons.

First, there was real emotion. It happened twenty-five years ago. The day after Christmas, and all through the house, things were a mess. Empty boxes and crumpled wrapping paper were piled here and there, evidence of excessive spending and rampant consumerism, clear proof that we had once again sacrificed the true meaning of Christmas in favor of our wish lists. As I surveyed the landfill around the tree, I was hit with a wave of frustration and regret. Surely, one small family couldn’t possibly need or even want all this stuff. Did we really pay for all of it? I could haul it to the front yard, make a bonfire, light a match, and who would ever know the difference? No one would miss a thing (except for, of course, those beautiful new books given as thoughtful gifts).

Since I was the only one awake, I began filling large trash bags with the paper, boxes, and ribbons, all of which would be taken to the recycling center where I would feel, if only for a moment,...