An Old-Fashioned Christmas

R
emember Christmas? Old honest-to-goodness, chestnuts-roasting, sugarplums-dancing, round-yon-virgin Christmas? Remember when the glorious strains of
Adeste Fideles
came courtesy of a group of ruddy-cheeked carolers at your door and not from a ringtone somewhere deep in the inflatable front yard snowglobe aisle at Wal-Mart?

Sad to say, those days have melted away like a snowflake on a hobo’s eyelash.
^*
Blight took the last chestnut tree years ago, dancing confections have been outlawed in every state but Nevada, and, well, we all know there’s no such thing as a virgin anymore.

Thank goodness, then, that we still have photos of those halcyon days of Christmas. From brittle, old snapshots, honest faces look back at us through the decades; they are strangers, but we know them still. Perhaps they remind us of ourselves. Perhaps we drink a little too much.

The point is, we could all use a little reminder of what Christmas is really about: hobos, orphans, boozed-up Santas, pill-popping housewives, and the shattered dreams of adorable children. It’s Christmas again—just like you remember it.

^*
A flaming hobo

N
obody had to tell Leonard to keep the Yuletide gay.

H
obo Santa couldn’t even fool the “special needs” toddlers.