Barry, Barnes, and Christmas Traditions

As with many around the world, the Christmas holidays bring moments to cherish with family. It’s been that way for my wife and me our entire lives. Fortunately, we all have the right political and religious beliefs, so there is little to no contention when we all gather together with my family in South Carolina or my wife’s clan in Texas. Just lots of laughter and food and drink and food and memories and food and photos and hugs and drink and pure joy. And food. 

With all of this family fun, it’s easy to reminisce of times when we were kids, and our kids were little kids, and soon I find myself longing for certain aspects of those days.

Along with the wonder and magic of Santa, there were unique Christmas traditions that involved our young children. There was the rule that no one would be granted entry into the den until I could check to make sure Santa had actually come and was not still stuck in our den since we had neither a chimney nor fireplace. Then came the delay tactics I’d implement once our kids came back-flipping into our room and onto our bed on Christmas morning – taking photos before Hurricane Christmasmorningkids made landfall; turning on music; making coffee, hot chocolate, orange juice, hot apple cider; polishing off any overlooked Santa snacks. My kids would add washing a load of laundry, changing the oil in the car, going for doughnuts…in New Orleans, watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Admittedly, the wait was painful. Finally, the kids had to line up youngest to oldest, which confused my son until my daughter was born, and enter the den in that order. These traditions actually came straight from my parents, which makes my 5k run while the kids wait to enter the den on Christmas morning legal.

One tradition in particular, though, that I miss today is reading Christmas stories to my young children. We’d gather on evenings just prior to the big day and I’d read “Twas the Night Before Christmas, Polar Express, Cajun Night Before Christmas (complete with my spot-on Cajun accent), Christmas Snow, Gullah Night Before Christmas (again with the lifelike accent), and others. My kids would listen, wide-eyed and engrossed in the stories, illustrations, and, of course, my animated storytelling. My wife would look on and wonder how she could have landed such a wonderful and talented husband, father to her children, and storyteller. That’s how I remember it.

When I try to read to my kids now, though, they…well…they run.

Away.

I thought a 20- and 18-year old would have more interest. Or at least more respect for their elders.

Courtesy of Goodreads.com

But no. To their credit, though, they do have important appointments on their busy schedules that just happen to coincide with my reading times – bathe the dog (which we don’t have), knit some socks, arrange the pantry, vacuum the pool (which we don’t have), milk the cows (which we don’t have), milk the goats (those either), milk the clock (which we actually have, but without udders).

This year, I figured it out. Choose a story they couldn’t resist! And, boy, did I have the story that they – my adult children – could not resist. Who doesn’t love Dave Barry, right? His humor and perspective are timeless and ageless. Perfect author. His stories are short and hilarious. Perfect style. And he has a Christmas book – The Shepherd, the Angel, and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog. Perfect book. This will be a perfect renewal of a perfect Christmas tradition.

So we gathered one evening in the living room beside our Christmas tree, lights a-twinkling, ornaments shining brightly. A soft snow snuggled the ground in a blanket of white. Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap. Visions of sugarplums. Heat Miser was doing his song and dance on the TV. Shepherds were trekking across the front yard, following the star. Reindeer were on the roof. It was PERFECT!

We made it midway through chapter one and my wife was somewhat entertained. The kids, however, looked like they’d just spent fifteen minutes watching someone mash potatoes. Slightly pleasing at first, but torturous after the 3-minute mark.

This wasn’t going as planned.

I made an executive decision: Salvage the dream, continue reading another night.

The kids were thrilled with this plan. My wife was even in favor. I was starting to feel like Clark Griswold.

A few nights later, I attended Dave Barnes’ Christmas concert in Charlotte. Amazing show! At one point, the stage cleared and the crowd was treated to a reading of A Walk One Winter Night. I left with a renewed sense of storytelling and resolute to carry on our tradition.

I received an invitation to teach a senior adult Sunday school class at my church the following Sunday and immediately knew what I’d do. I purchased an ebook edition of A Walk One Winter Night and read it to the class, complete with a quiet Christmas piano accompaniment I put together on Spotify. It was different, but it was a huge success! Having received divine encouragement, I was more inspired than ever to show my family the pure joy to be discovered in listening to my reading of a Christmas story.

Finally, the moment came a few nights later when my audience was in that limbo between the end of a Christmas movie and bed. My captive audience was about to be captivated! No need to give them a choice, just jump right in. “Let’s finish our story!” I exclaimed and began chapter 2 of The Shepherd, the Angel, and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog before anyone could escape.

My wife laughed at all the right times. When I reached a particularly sidesplitting scene as the family was leaving the church after the pageant, all four of us were laughing. Tears were streaming from my eyes because the moment was picture perfect…and the scene was really, really funny. This is what I had in mind. It was going swimmingly. The tradition would be reinstated with much fanfare! My kids would revolt if their father, the master book-reader, were to not offer a time of Christmas story-reading! “Read us a Christmas story, Dad!” would be their yuletide cry for years to come!

The story was short. After the first chapter, nearly half of the story was complete. So, the final reading took about 15 (or 45) minutes. When I read the last word, I closed the book dramatically, wiped my eyes, and waited for the applause and hugs of appreciation.

Instead, I received an awkward pause.

Finally, my wife said, “That was great, hon.”

She takes her role as the supportive wife seriously. That’s a good thing. She gets lots of opportunities.

That cracked the ice. Now the kids would feel comfortable expressing their adoration and amazement.

Crickets.

My wife went into emergency support mode. “Didn’t y’all think that was a funny story? Wasn’t it great?”

“Meh,” was my daughter’s shy reply, hoping not to hurt my feelings.

Then my son, with no regards for feelings whatsoever, brought it home with, “That was the longest chapter of my life.”

I was incredulous after receiving that gut punch.

How could literate beings not appreciate the magnitude of awesomeness that is my book reading? Especially when the subject of my reading is a Dave Barry book…about a dysfunctional Christmas pageant and a Christmas miracle dog named Walter?!?

Yet, my dreams were shattered. The perfect Christmas tradition had been wrecked by people who do not share my perspective. How dare they not think like I do? Don’t they realize that this is all about me?!?

--> Wait…what? 
Oh. 

Well, this is a little awkward. 

So, I guess Christmas is not all about me, huh? Yeah. Guess so. 

Merry Christmas, everyone!