A Christmas list that counts

CHRISTMAS IS A

dozen movie moments. The snap of a birch log in the fireplace, an ornament sledding off the tree.

Christmas is squeals and giggles and ice clunking in a cocktail glass. It’s the first few notes of a church organ, the creak of the congregation rising in song.

Christmas is chaos, gross excess, Capra marathons, heavy food and a soulful note from an old friend.

Christmas is just nuts.

*

I’ve got no patience anymore with realists, the thoughtful yet ill-humored folks who will tell you that Santa is a fraud or that Christmas has no meaning.

Santa? He’s based on St. Nicholas, an actual 4th century figure who used his personal wealth to help those in need. Today, he relies on his knowledge of Einstein’s theories to slip through a fold in the space/time continuum to visit every house he can.

Santa rules. Case closed.

Meanwhile, Christmas itself gets better every year, bigger and more robust. You can measure it in merchandise or in children’s smiles, and you’ll get the same result: Christmas is booming.

If only I could buy stock in it, some sort of holiday mutual fund. Everybody else is lining their pockets with Christmas. Why not me? Why not someone who really needs to make a buck or two?

“Hello, Merrill Lynch? Let’s go heavy into the holidays. Buy. Buy. Buy.”

*

Christmas is Charlie Brown, Charlie Dickens and a dog named Max.

Christmas is cold beer, spicy chili and cozy-warm holiday parties.

Christmas is watching the Weather Channel, to see if Grandma can get out of LaGuardia.

Christmas is standing rib roasts, sliced ham and Beauregard yams.

Christmas is plasma TVs, digital cameras and no down payments for qualified customers.

Christmas, I swear, is going to ruin me.

*

On the radio, they’re playing that song that Streisand sings, the one about a “Grown Up Christmas List.”

No more lives torn apart

That wars would never start

And time would heal all hearts ...

For three days, I can’t get the stinkin’ song out of my head.

Sure, it’s a lovely ballad, but it has this Captain & Tennille quality that makes it echo in your head like bargain gin. I think you know what I mean.

In any case, this is not a good thing. My head doesn’t need any more bargain gin.

Every man would have a friend

That right would always win

And love would never end ...

No, I don’t need any more songs bouncing around my head. Already, I’ve got a little voice reminding me of all the things I need to do before Dec. 25.

* Run to Pasadena for a toy trombone

* Pick up an Aquadoodle at Target

* Get the little girl that new Anne Hathaway DVD

* Buy a pastry brush for my wife

* Figure out what a pastry brush is

The next few days will be the Winter Olympics of parenthood, running to the mall, crawling to the candy store, sprinting to the Ralphs. Making sure there’s enough ice. Making sure there’s mixer. Leaving a little something for the mail carrier.

Why so much fuss? I suppose everybody has their own reasons.

For us, it’s because we will walk into the house at some point and catch our son staring up at the Christmas tree, just standing and staring, face like a snow owl.

His eyes will sparkle with the lights. Does anyone not look like a movie star in the glow of a Christmas tree? Well, he does. Talk about star power.

We’ll catch him staring and pursing his lips. He’ll be thinking about Christmas and Santa and maybe even God.

And that’s our older son. He’s 20 now. The boy loves the holidays the way I love E.B. White and cold mountain air. When he was 3, he actually ate a box of tinsel. He passed Christmas for about a week.

His little brother seems to like the holidays too. Each night, his bedtime prayers start with Santa. This has been going on since June.

His sisters? The holidays make them shine like ornaments, with a trace of Rembrandt’s brush in their Irish cheeks. Heck, they put mere ornaments to shame.

That’s the reason. That’s why their mother and I run from here to there to everywhere -- count our pennies, clip the coupons, put off that new car another month.

Because Christmas is selfless. Christmas is exhausting. Christmas is life.

Merry Christmas.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. His MySpace address is myspace.com/chriserskine.