There was another Christmas too, the one of Santa Claus and tinsel, the one that had produced the wind-up tank, the one that had produced the other two toys I remember having as a small child (a rubber ball and a spinning top). I believed in that one too, because my parents made a big thing of it, talking a great deal about Santa Claus in the weeks and days leading up to Christmas. Somehow (to my credit, I think), I never associated closely the Christmas of stillness and the Christmas of Santa Claus.

I continued to believe in Santa Claus until I was in the second grade, when the teacher casually stated, “Of course we all know there is no Santa Claus. We all know that the presents are placed under the tree by our parents.” I felt as though I had been hit in the stomach. I had no idea until then that grownups tell children lots of things that aren’t so, sometimes for their own amusement, sometimes for their own convenience, and sometimes for what they deem to be the good of the children.

My mother had no clear religious understandings or convictions, but she tried very hard to develop and perpetuate a Christmas tradition for our family. My father was not a bad man (like myself and most people I know, neither good nor bad, but somewhere in between), but he was an alcoholic of a particular sort. He generally went on binges on holidays, with Christmas usually being the most extreme. Under the influence of alcohol, my father was resentful, angry, sarcastic, and verbally abusive to my mother and to my little brother. He was never so to my sister, and to me only when I tried to intervene. There were good Christmases, though, and good parts to many Christmases. My friends liked our house at Christmas, and my mother was happy and animated with company.

My wife and I developed our own Christmas traditions in our own home. These included each of us giving a thoughtful gift, according to our means, to each of the others – no Santa Claus. (We also had a rule that our children were not to say anything to spoil the Santa Claus tradition for children who believed in it.) We opened one present each on Christmas Eve, then went to Midnight Mass. We opened the other presents on Christmas morning, and then enjoyed a special breakfast. We always avoided indulging in “things” to excess.

I suppose I was in my early thirties, with five children, perhaps twelve or thirteen years of active military service, and back from Vietnam, when I learned that no one has the least idea at what time of year Jesus was born. I learned that some pope designated December 25th as the day to celebrate Jesus’ birth, in order to co-opt the pagan festivals and celebrations that were so common at the time of the Winter Solstice. My sense of mystical connection through the ages with that still winter night of so long ago had been self-delusion.

But I still miss Christmas, very much.