My family is spending Christmas in Gunnison, Colorado. Yesterday we skied and did not die! Hurray! I’m snow-adventuring at a nice, slow pace. One day inside on the couch, then one day mostly inside with one afternoon excursion. It’s worked so far. I spent a good amount of time finishing my last story for The Gazette – a series on Emporia housing, and applying for jobs. Hit me up with suggestions! I can make coffee, write amusing things and sing without coercion. (Actually I have a long list of real-life, grown-up communication skills, but you don’t really want to hear about those now, do you?)

I know I have to make a Christmas post today. It’s the perfect time. I finished my eggnog, I have a comfy blanket, and the cabin is quiet except for the Christmas-themed episode of This American Life and the inaudible sound of Rebecca finishing a Van Gogh puzzle. So here we go – in two segments, my thoughts on Christmas past.

Santa Claus was the creep who stole my hat

Like many smart children, I never warmed to Santa Claus. I wondered if he brought me presents to make up for being so weird and scary whenever we met. There was the basic awkwardness that happens when two strangers meet, enhanced by the fact that Santa appeared to know me, when I certainly did not know him. It’s like when a stranger comes up to you in a bar, claiming to know you from high school when this is absolutely not the case. Awkward. Add a velvet suit and societal pressure, and we will never be best friends.

I don’t believe I ever sat on Santa’s lap. I don’t know what child in their right mind thinks it a good idea to sit in any stranger’s lap, even if he’s wearing velvet pants. But one evening when I was nine years old my younger cousin, Elizabeth, visited with her family, I met Santa once more. On this evening, I was wearing my favorite, velvet, blue hat.

Santa could tell I didn’t like him. In hopes of becoming my friend, he stole my hat. Personally, when I want to make friends I ask someone to lunch, or to watch a bad chick flick together while we eat ice cream. But Santa decided to steal my hat, and he waved it tauntingly above my head, which wasn’t difficult considering my height. Summoning all my anger and indignation, I leaped in the air, snatched my hat back, and walked away. Santa did not feel good about himself. Jerk.

I won’t say I have no good memories of Santa. He brought us a trampoline one year, which was pretty cool. Sure, I was tipped off a few years early by forgotten price tags. The Sharpie scribbles over the price tags were each like a little wave signaling the truth. There was no way Santa shopped for gifts instead of creating them via elves. He isn’t an Amazon distribution center. Either he was getting lazy, or my parents picked up the slack.

We had a White Christmas the year Santa stole my hat. White Christmases don’t happen every year in Kansas, and my dad and uncle took advantage. After the Christmas Eve service, members of the youth group handed out reindeer food, and I made sure we all took some home. I scattered the food on the brown grass outside, and woke up to a snowy suburban landscape. On the roof, there were sled tracks and boot prints. It must have been the man in the red suit.

I know there are many feelings about whether or not children should be told a moderately overweight man dresses up like a weird Broadway chorus member and breaks into your house. But I don’t mind the lie. Every kid needs magic at Christmas, and we all need something to believe in.

“Christmas is a time to be homesick, even when you’re home.”

My brother, Bill, hacked my Facebook to post this as my status one year when I was in high school and he was home from college. I was happy and surprised he didn’t write something like, “I have ingrown toenails.” But that sentence, “Christmas is a time to be homesick, even when you’re home,” stayed with me. It’s one of those truths no one wants to say, like “My Great Aunt Trudy doesn’t know Florida is too warm for wool, but I can’t bear telling her because she sends me a hand-knit Rudolph classic each Christmas.”

It’s difficult to deny memories laying in bed as the magical feeling of Christmas Eve ballooned inside, and you struggled to put away the excitement because you knew Santa wouldn’t come otherwise. We used to count down the days from Halloween to Christmas. There was (and still is) magic in singing “Silent Night” by candlelight, and spending an entire day in pajamas when no one can judge you. Christmas is still magical, but it will never be the same as when we were children.

Before Christmas became a routine, albeit a warm and fuzzy annual routine I look forward to, every tradition was new when we were young. When I was seven, I could only remember about three Christmases. Decorating the tree, baking gingerbread houses and opening presents felt like a tradition I was establishing with my family for the first time, rather than an age-old practice we were carrying out for one more year.

Now is the season that prompts memories, which encourages nostalgia. I love nostalgia. I miss nostalgia. Now is the limbo between when our parents made Christmas for us, and when we’ll make Christmas for our children. It’s the sweet spot. Those of us in our 20s have very little expected of us and therefore, minimal stress. I’ll fill someone else’s stocking one day. For now, I’m happy to drink eggnog and watch bad movies on the couch. Until I go broke buying Christmas presents “from Santa” as I mark out the price tag with Sharpie, I’ll make a few memories of my own.

Maybe I’ll buy my own reindeer food.

Nope, that would be weird. Merry Christmas.