Why I Don't Celebrate Christmas

“Everything is right at Christmas.” I quickened my pace and studder-stepped around the last corner for home. Stooping, I looked through the trees toward the house with hopes of seeing Grandpa’s 1950 Buick. Being a Junior Higher, I fettered the little-boy impulse to run and maintained my “grown-up” stride. It seemed a long time since I had been with Grandma and Grandpa and I could already taste Grandma’s German pastries and breads. Excitement shivered deep inside me at the thought of being with them again. Reaching the level ground of the city park I could see my house at the far end of the open field. And parked in front was Grandpa’s car—they had finally arrived.

Breaking into an easy trot, I crossed the open, grassy play field. Our house was across the street from a beautiful city park known for its array of trees from all over the world—Japanese Apple, Dogwood, Oak, and Maple of every variety, as well as evergreens. The colors were magnificent at fall, and even with the light dusting of snow falling that day, the few triumphant leaves which were clinging to the otherwise naked limbs burst forth in their earthy colors.

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