Father Christmas

In a previous post I discussed the different perspective that Fatherhood has delivered. Going through the Holiday Season has got me thinking a lot about my own Father, and how my Christmas has largely been shaped by him. My most vivid recollections of these merry mornings mostly have to do with him.

Kenneth D. Ireland is a man of Christmas. As much as he likes to tease about his admiration for Scrooge and the Grinch, his heart is very much of the Christmas spirit. He may not have rosy red cheeks, a belly like a bowl full of jelly, or a twinkle in his eye, but to me he is the full embodiment of St. Nick.

My parents didn’t make a lot of money, but they made enough to take good care of us. They’ve always been more generous than they’ve needed to be come Christmas morning. Even with their boys all grown up and well past 30, they still desire to fill our stockings full of joy.

The comfort of our Christmas was always in the consistency of it, the celebration of which remains largely unchanged to this day.

Weeks before Christmas, we’d go down to the corner lot to bring home our tree. No matter how closely Dad would assess these trees, he would always manage to bring home a crooked one. It became such a part of our holiday that when they finally bought an artificial tree, we were disappointed in how straight it was. The one thing I always wanted to do was put the star atop the tree. Every year Dad would patiently try to hold me up as I would stretch over as far as I could. I don’t know if I ever got it on fully, but that was never the point.

The excitable chatter of what we wanted for Christmas was always met with gentle taunting. Threats of Santa passing us over for better-behaved children, or coal-filled stockings were all too common. He would always do it with his same Wicked Witch of the West impersonation. He has, in fact, never stopped doing it.

Christmas morning would begin at the top of the stairs as we waited for Dad to blind us with his Super 8 camera lamp. This thing burned hotter and brighter than the Star of Bethlehem. He would film us coming down the stairs and around the corner to capture our reaction to the first glimpse of the gifts below the tree. Of course, all ever captured was us desperately shielding our eyes from his light assault.

The family would spread out over the living room, and claim a spot to do their unwrapping business. Dad would spend most of the morning distributing gifts, making little piles in front of each person. Eventually, Mom would tell him to sit down and let people catch up. He’d try to capture the best moments on his camera. His Christmas films were always his finest cinematic efforts. Eventually he’d hand the camera over to someone to film him opening a gift. When watching these films later, during his appearance he always exclaimed, “And now, the STAR of the film!”

After the gifts are opened and the living room is a mess of boxes and discarded wrapping paper, the “bag” makes its first appearance. It is at this point you have to account for all your swag, otherwise it may get swept up in Dad’s attempts to clear the living room. In later years Dad became a target of wadded up balls of paper that we were “trying” to toss into the bag.

After the first bag sweep, Dad would then park himself just outside the living room in the front hall to attend to the items where some assembly was required. With his boys surrounding him he would employ every ounce of his admittedly limited mechanical skill to get everything in working order. I think this has to be my favorite memory. Dad never needed to know how to play with our toys with us, but in these moments we could share and bond over them.

As selfish little brats, we never really understood or appreciated the efforts my Mom and Dad made to get us what we wanted. Luckily, my parents never got too caught up in any toy craze from the 80s. Dad never had to chase after a Cabbage Patch Kid, but I know that he would have tried if he had to. If we wanted something (within reason) we usually got it. Much like the Old Man in A Christmas Story, Dad would come through for us. I used to think it was funny to give him grief about the one gift I never got. I had a Star Wars AT-AT on my list for more than a few years. I’m actually not quite sure why I never got it, but I really wasn’t that put out by it. I’m angry with myself now, because I really think that stuck with him.

For over 65 years, my Dad was never separated from his own Father on Christmas. That first Christmas without Grandpa was strange for all of us because it was so quiet. The two of them would start a conversation inside the door that didn’t seem to end until one went out the door. This of course will be the first Christmas morning I will spend away from my Father. Our streak is broken at 38. Sure, this makes me sad, but that is still an incredible run. Living life the right way only increases the amount of loved ones that need to share Christmas. I have so much of my Father’s own spirit to share with my extended family.

In his example, I am now Santa Claus. Or at least that is the job I will take on for as long as my baby girl chooses to believe. If I do it right though, she will never stop believing, as I’ve never stopped believing in my Father.

Merry Christmas Dad.