Having mis-represented the religious bete noir du jour as David instead of Richard Dawkins in my other blog, it seems only fair to give a fellow traveler some column inches here in compensation. A dear colleague sent in her yuletide recollection to share. It seems her young son had a spiritual crisis at a very tender age. But I'll let her tell the story...
... Hi Fred,
It seemed like a long time since I had connected with you. So I search for you, find your blog--and what! you are giving me a lump of coal! Bah Humbug!
loved your sad story. I remember living through that pain of materialistic hopes dashed at Christmas, and so made the point never to ask my kids what they wanted Santa to bring them for Christmas. Santa brought them things, but as a total surprise. And I think it did help make the thing a whole lot more fun.
I have several memories to share, but I'll post this one that always makes me smile as a first offering. We were living in Chicago, and my son Peter was about 3. We lived in a tiny urban house, and certainly didn't have a fireplace, chimney or mantle. Peter was okay with hanging his stocking on the doorknob as we had done in previous years, making no comment about this 'irregularity in Christmas lore'. After he went to sleep on Christmas eve, I snuck a bright red tricycle into the house and "under" the tree.
In the morning, he was up early, eager to see what surprises Santa had brought. He raced to the living room, and shouted "A Tricycle! A tricycle! Wow! Santa brought me a tricycle!" There was a brief pause, and then I heard him call out "How'd he get THAT down the chimney!"