Watch Out for Holiday’s Tall Tales

“When I was your age, we had so much snow at Christmas that . . . “

Children and grandchildren everywhere will groan and roll their eyes again this Christmas Day as the old-timers recollect how much simpler and better and tougher it was in the old days. Young people had to be much more hardy then, back when the snow drifted to the tops of automobiles and the temperature plunged to double digits below zero (forget about wind chill--a gimmick to make a comfort-loving generation think it’s really cold). There will be stories of struggling through blizzards to get to school and back. The miles and the depth of the snow expand with each additional eggnog fueling the story-teller.

Bring out the tall tales now, Dylan Thomas wrote in his classic narrative of a child’s Christmas in Wales. So much the better in Southern California, where many children only see snow when they are transported to it for fun, and can retreat quickly to the warm lowland--perhaps even the beach--as soon as it’s not fun anymore, when reddened hands become so cold that little ones sob, snowsuits get soaked and one mitten will never be found.

The turkey comes frozen and plastic-wrapped in the supermarket case now, not captured live and shrieking after a merry chase around the barnyard. This epic would involve graphic details of how a live struggling bird, which probably had a pet’s name, involuntarily made the transition to the afterlife of the dinner table. Upon hearing of such mayhem, today’s young people--who barely wrinkle noses at movie chain-saw murders--make faces and declare, “Yuk! How could you?”

Back then, the livestock had to be fed no matter how cold or how much snow. Boys struggled into the house with scuttles overfilled with chunks of coal. Later, they reversed the trip to take out glowing coals and listen to the embers sinking sizzling into the snow. Aproned mothers barked about the snow that tracked the kitchen linoleum, turning to puddles and ordered overshoes worn the next time, or else. Sisters, for once, did dishes without complaining. Fathers dozed off in the warmth of a fireplace or giant black coal stove, their long-john tops showing where shirts had been unbuttoned.

There were no convenience stores then for the forgotten extra can of cranberry sauce or bottle of milk. There was no stove-top stuffing, no instant mashed potatoes, no zapping the lima beans in the microwave. Young folk could not flee after Christmas dinner to a choice of six movies in the same theater. They were forced to sit respectfully and listen, again, to their elders tell stories of how it was back when they were young. A common variation was that they were so poor that they had to make their gifts themselves. For all too many, that part of it was no exaggeration.

So much about the good old days was not very good at all. But selective memories, which become especially active at holiday time, happily filter out the hardship and tragedy. And 20 years from now, today’s children will have their own captive audiences of offspring. The dishes will be doing themselves in a machine. The old folks will sink sighing and overstuffed into the biggest overstuffed chairs. The eggnog will flow. And the stories of Christmases past will continue.