Christmas and I have had what you might call a stormy relationship.

When I was a child, I looked at Christmas the way most children do. It was my favorite part of the year. Everything just seemed to get more and more pleasant as December settled over the foothills of the Blue Ridge. Sometimes there’d be a blanket of snow, and sometimes just a string of chilly days, but the cold did nothing to diminish the warmth of the season.

In those days, we always got almost two weeks of school vacation around Christmas, and that alone could bring joy to a child’s heart. Even though Dad had to work right up until Christmas Eve, he’d always find time on the weekend before that to go out and find a tree with us. There were Christmas tree lots then, but he’d never go to one. We lived in the country, and there was always a neighboring farm or woodland where we could go find a real tree, one that had made its own way in life instead of popping up among row after row of identical trees. I can still remember the year that I was finally old enough, and Dad handed me the small, crosscut saw we used, allowing me to cut the tree myself. When you’re 12 years old, that’s an honor.

We always set the tree up on Christmas Eve, and always took it down on January 2. That was the tradition, and it was never broken. Each Christmas Eve we’d bring out the boxes of ornaments and lights, bolt the tree stand to the big piece of plywood with the model train tracks running around it, and start the ritual. Dad always spent an hour or two replacing bulbs in the strings of lights, the big colored bulbs the size of your thumb that were popular in the seventies. We’d level the tree, make sure it had water, and start hanging things. Mom usually sat back a bit, supervising, watching to make sure everything looked balanced and tasteful as we two clumsy kids did our best to hang delicate glass from slender boughs without smashing them. We succeeded, sometimes.

Christmas morning was the moment we’d waited for all year, and my parents … bless them, they weren’t perfect, but not once — not ever — was I disappointed with what I found under the tree. Santa and my parents moved heaven and earth for us kids, and somehow always managed to produce exactly what we’d been hoping for. They’d always be coy about it, telling us that our wishes might be just a little beyond what Santa could manage … but somehow, Santa always came through, even if the rest of the prior year had been the very definition of austerity. Christmas joy, the way a kid defines it, was the one thing they could never deny us.

Christmas is for children, as the song says. I’ve tried to enjoy it, through the years, but I haven’t always succeeded. My father died at a time very near the holidays, and that’s put a bit of a damper on the Christmas spirit for me. Some years I’ve managed to reunite with my mother and extended family. One year, I ate Christmas dinner at a Shoney’s Big Boy restaurant, alone. I’ve spent Christmases with friends, and I’ve spent them working. The last ten Christmases, I’ve taken on my father’s role, trying to hang on to some of the old traditions, trying to make Christmas special for a little girl and a beloved wife. I wish I could say I had my father’s track record, but I sure tried hard.

Fast forward (or press “chapter skip”) to 2004. It’s December now. There are so many things I’d be doing right now, if my life hadn’t taken this disastrous turn. I’d be shopping, burning Christmas CD’s and listening to them every day, thinking about decorating, getting a Christmas tree, deciding what to have for Christmas dinner, planning trips to visit family and friends.

Christmas is coming fast and I wish I could stop it. I’m not ready. They’re starting to play Christmas songs on the radio now and they just make me teary-eyed. The decorations are going up on the streets, the big department stores are lighting their trees, all the TV ads have Christmas bells, parties are being planned, and people are jamming the shopping malls looking for the perfect gift. They’re decorating their homes, watching “A Christmas Story” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” on TV. I want to do all those things too, but then I remember.

I checked out of my weekly-rate, sleazy old motel room this morning and as I carried the last of my bags out to the car, I noticed I was feeling sad again. I realized that it was because I was once again homeless. That crappy room with the peeling paint and the stained carpet and the disgusting bathroom was the closest thing I’ve had to a home lately. Pathetic! I will probably stay in the office tonight … my employer is once again late with payroll, so I will need to wait until Monday before arranging accommodations for another week or so.

I dread answering the phone. She calls, being demanding, wanting this or that, and motivating me by telling me how worthless I have been as a husband and how everything is my fault. I thought I was doing a little better for a few days there, but now I’m back to square one. Merry Christmas.