Changing Christmas

Since I've been at Princeton, I've forgotten that Christmas officially starts the day after Thanksgiving. Unlike home, my life in the "bubble" consists of no wreath, no Santas and no carols. What was once my "Christmas Season" has been transformed into a conglomeration of religious signs, symbols and traditions. My two Jewish roommates and I playfully compete for "holiday time," battling with candy canes and menorahs. This year they laughed while they opened their presents every night for over a week under the white lights of my six foot, CVS brand Christmas tree as Adam Sandler drifted in from the stereo. The "holiday season" is changing.

Over the years my Christmases have transformed themselves from weeks wrought with excitement and anticipation, pictures with Santa, and meticulous wrapping of McDonald's toys to present as gifts into weeks packed with hunting down perfect presents, planning holiday parties, and lingering over meals with my family. I grew up, and Christmas changed with me. I've long since given up making the "good" list everyday but I can easily recall the fear I felt each Christmas morning, wondering if that smell was burnt toast or the coal from my stocking.

My top holiday memories aren't the picture perfect moments caroling around the elegant tree dazzling in white lights but rather the days my mother looked at our tree and sighed. "One day . . . one day I will have a pretty tree," she said of our legendary tree: always live, always 12 feet, always covered in glorious colored lights illuminating our elementary school creations and cereal box discoveries. Each year she attempts to purchase an elegant angel to top the tree, one worthy of it's place of elegance. Each year she is overruled by my brother who demands that his 10-inch yellow angel illuminated by it's own Vegas-gold lights remain on the highest perch available. He'll be 23 this year.

Being the youngest of four children, I missed out on the joy of watching someone else discover Santa. To this day, I'm told that is a blessing. Each year the tale is told of the same brother's G.I. Joe six-foot aircraft carrier. My parents paid my two oldest siblings to help Santa put together this masterful creation of a present then went to bed at midnight, leaving them with good wishes and an instruction kit. My siblings watched the sun rise as they pieced together the solid gray puzzle of a contraption complete with yellow mini-caution stickers for each individual mini-stair on the three-floor ship. A short time later, my brother ran with delight in to see what Santa had left him. "The G.I. Joe-special-duty-Air-force-carrier-and-landing-strip!!!" he exclaimed, " . . . Hey, Santa didn't put the stickers on right." The elves quietly restrained themselves.

My earliest memories began in the days that my parents still held total reign of the holiday. They tucked the four of us in on Christmas Eve dressed in matching holiday pajamas — no small task when considering that when I was one, my oldest brother was 13. Christmas morning began with pictures by the fireplace. Again, no small task considering the reliability and consistency of the timer on a camera from 1980. Each year we laugh at the pictures of my mother sprinting to her spot, tapping on the camera lens, or walking angrily towards the tripod.

Though my siblings and I are now fully grown, Santa continues to frequent our rural home in the wee hours of the morning. "I'm serious this year." My mother always threatens, "Santa's not coming unless you guys go to bed. Santa can't stay up this late."

Christmas is getting harder to orchestrate each year. My oldest brother is married and brings his wife home over New Years. Each of us has friends to see, errands to run, and work to do before heading back to work or school. My parents even had to drive two-and-a-half hours in order to find a live tree suiting our holiday standards. Maybe things have to change.

One day I hope my mom will have her wish. Her house will be "beautiful" with the traditional elements of Christmas: mistletoe, holly, trees elegantly lit with glass ornaments and white lights. She'll be able to wrap gifts in solid colored paper as she listens to gentle music wafting over the sound system.

Until then, she's stuck with now-glitterless ornaments from decades gone by reflecting the colored strands of lights and the day glow-golden angel that my brother insists defines "Christmas." Pictures of snowmen and Happy Holiday greetings still decorate our gifts and the Christmas cookies never come out right, no matter how many times we adjust the heat trying to speed up the cooking process. Kids Krazy Karols blare in every room. She never has gotten her perfect Christmas picture.

But my mom taught me something else. Amidst the turmoil of friends and family, parties and work, I apologized for the chaotic turmoil surrounding our family holiday. She smiled and laughed, "One day you'll understand. It's not about the perfect picture. It's not about the perfect meal. It's not even about the tree. You, your friends, the craziness, this is Christmas, even if it means hanging the broken ornaments because someone made them years ago, running to the store at midnight for carrots for Rudolph, or laughing because the tree is still crooked. This is it. And it's wonderful."

One day my mom will have that perfect Christmas tree. And there's no doubt in my mind that the crowning masterpiece of this ribbon and glass spectacle will be the same golden angel smiling down, reminding us all that Christmas doesn't create itself, we create it: golden angels, glittered ornaments, and all. Ashley Johnson is from Florence, Ala. She can be reached at ajohnson@princeton.edu.