Sequim Gazette Editorial and Letters to the Editor
Santa lives despite economy
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I believe in Santa Claus.
Not that he's a "chubby, plump, right jolly old elf ... with a beard on his chin as white as the snow." Come on. That would mean I would be taking Santa on faith from Clement Moore's description in "A Visit from St. Nicholas."
The last thing I took on faith was that inside straight I knew was coming back in college when I pushed all my chips in the pot, then lost.
Not having the cash to back up my bet, I fell into a gaping chasm of debt owed to a bunch of fledgling poets, journalists, actors and artistic types. That's not the kind of crowd you want to be beholden to, especially when one of the artists is a sculptor known for his prowess with a blowtorch.
Fortunately, just as the bloodthirsty thugs were about to catch up with me, I won a financially rewarding literary prize.
A hulking free-verse poet, who preferred to play seven-card stud, grabbed me as I stepped off the stage and hustled me to the bank, forcing me to sign the check over to the campus gambling cartel.
But I digress.
It's the spirit of Santa Claus that turns me all soft and mushy inside at this time of year, like a fruitcake.
No, that's a bad example. It's more a feeling like that of a bourbon ball or, even better, one of my daughter's chocolate-chip cookies.
My daughter showed me that the Santa Claus spirit is alive and kicking recently when I told her that her mom and pop would make their annual Christmas visit but not to expect a multitude of presents because of the current economic situation.
"That's OK," she said. "All I want is for you to hang out."
So I feel maybe there is a Santa out there somewhere, spreading cheer, like when the year I started suspecting he didn't really exist, but still ... after all the presents were opened, I kept checking, way back under the tree, just in case.
Even now, when the granddaughters are off playing with their toys and the adults are trying to put other toys together, I sneak a peek behind the tree.
This year, I'm like most people, wishing the Wall Street shenanigans hadn't turned my IRA into something approaching an IRKaput, so I could make it a happier holiday.
It's not like I'm getting rich writing an every-third-week column. I'd be doing better if the boss would approve my mileage requests for cruising the Internet to do research, but no. What a Scrooge.
The boss also turned thumbs down on a beautiful holiday moneymaking scheme of mine.
My plan was to sponsor a phony "Sequim Newsmaker of the Year" award, only not based on merit, but on how much the winner could contribute to my personal coffer, otherwise known as "Jim's Fund for the Family."
However, the boss told me to get that idea out of my head or I could get out of her sight and into the nearest jail cell.
Even so, I won't let my Santa spirit be squashed.
Like when I was a kid, I marvel at the lights on the family Christmas tree, although I'm no longer limber enough to lie on the floor under the tree to get an up-close view of the light reflected off decorations.
The kids are grown up and gone, so I can't drive around for hours on the pretext of showing them every lighting display at houses around town. Of course, the drives were for me and the kids always fell asleep in the back seat after the first hour.
Sometimes, their mother fell asleep in the front seat.
What do they know about Santa spirit?
At least my family unanimously got all mushy inside along with me when we saw the greatest holiday movie of all time, "A Christmas Story," when it was first released 25 years ago.
Like Ralphie in that film, I'll be hoping Santa brought me a Red Ryder BB gun this year. If it's not under the tree, I'll poke around for it ... when no one else is looking.
Jim Guthrie's journalism career has spanned 41 years with newspapers in California and Washington. He is interested in play writing and poetry and lives in Port Angeles.
Not that he's a "chubby, plump, right jolly old elf ... with a beard on his chin as white as the snow." Come on. That would mean I would be taking Santa on faith from Clement Moore's description in "A Visit from St. Nicholas."
The last thing I took on faith was that inside straight I knew was coming back in college when I pushed all my chips in the pot, then lost.
Not having the cash to back up my bet, I fell into a gaping chasm of debt owed to a bunch of fledgling poets, journalists, actors and artistic types. That's not the kind of crowd you want to be beholden to, especially when one of the artists is a sculptor known for his prowess with a blowtorch.
Fortunately, just as the bloodthirsty thugs were about to catch up with me, I won a financially rewarding literary prize.
A hulking free-verse poet, who preferred to play seven-card stud, grabbed me as I stepped off the stage and hustled me to the bank, forcing me to sign the check over to the campus gambling cartel.
But I digress.
It's the spirit of Santa Claus that turns me all soft and mushy inside at this time of year, like a fruitcake.
No, that's a bad example. It's more a feeling like that of a bourbon ball or, even better, one of my daughter's chocolate-chip cookies.
My daughter showed me that the Santa Claus spirit is alive and kicking recently when I told her that her mom and pop would make their annual Christmas visit but not to expect a multitude of presents because of the current economic situation.
"That's OK," she said. "All I want is for you to hang out."
So I feel maybe there is a Santa out there somewhere, spreading cheer, like when the year I started suspecting he didn't really exist, but still ... after all the presents were opened, I kept checking, way back under the tree, just in case.
Even now, when the granddaughters are off playing with their toys and the adults are trying to put other toys together, I sneak a peek behind the tree.
This year, I'm like most people, wishing the Wall Street shenanigans hadn't turned my IRA into something approaching an IRKaput, so I could make it a happier holiday.
It's not like I'm getting rich writing an every-third-week column. I'd be doing better if the boss would approve my mileage requests for cruising the Internet to do research, but no. What a Scrooge.
The boss also turned thumbs down on a beautiful holiday moneymaking scheme of mine.
My plan was to sponsor a phony "Sequim Newsmaker of the Year" award, only not based on merit, but on how much the winner could contribute to my personal coffer, otherwise known as "Jim's Fund for the Family."
However, the boss told me to get that idea out of my head or I could get out of her sight and into the nearest jail cell.
Even so, I won't let my Santa spirit be squashed.
Like when I was a kid, I marvel at the lights on the family Christmas tree, although I'm no longer limber enough to lie on the floor under the tree to get an up-close view of the light reflected off decorations.
The kids are grown up and gone, so I can't drive around for hours on the pretext of showing them every lighting display at houses around town. Of course, the drives were for me and the kids always fell asleep in the back seat after the first hour.
Sometimes, their mother fell asleep in the front seat.
What do they know about Santa spirit?
At least my family unanimously got all mushy inside along with me when we saw the greatest holiday movie of all time, "A Christmas Story," when it was first released 25 years ago.
Like Ralphie in that film, I'll be hoping Santa brought me a Red Ryder BB gun this year. If it's not under the tree, I'll poke around for it ... when no one else is looking.
Jim Guthrie's journalism career has spanned 41 years with newspapers in California and Washington. He is interested in play writing and poetry and lives in Port Angeles.
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