I wrote some blog posts with my Christmas memories back in 2006, and wanted to update therm. But they are in the Randy-write style, kind of helter-skelter, and not very engaging. I put them all in a document, and made it into a PDF. What voice should I use? I decided to make it a dream sequence.
I asked my faithful SI assistant Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4 to "Please write an engaging story about my past Christmases in a first person account as if in a dream on Christmas Eveusing information in the attached document."
(AI Google NotrbookLM Infographic - Randy's Christmas Eve Dream)
Here is Randy's Christmas Eve Dream story:
Randy's Christmas Eve Dream
I drift into sleep on Christmas Eve, and the memories wash over me like waves of tinsel and starlight...
I'm floating through time, watching myself believe, then doubt, then become, and finally embody Santa Claus. Each part has been a gift, hasn't it? Even now, especially now.
I'm back on 30th Street, that second-story apartment where Stan and I couldn't figure out the Santa logistics. I can see us lying in our bedroom, whispering theories in the dark. No fireplace—how did he manage it? Did he come through the door? The window? We'd debate it endlessly, two boys trying to solve the greatest mystery of our young lives. But presents still arrived at the Christmas tree set up in the cubbyhole by the window...Santa?
A bit older now, and Christmas Eve arrives and we're at Gram and Gramps' house on Point Loma, that beautiful home they built in 1951, complete with the fireplace we needed to believe. The house smells of pine and cinnamon, of something baking in the kitchen. The stockings—mine, Stan's—hang by the hearth, hopeful and empty, waiting.
Gram is leading us in carols as we lie in bed, her voice soft and sure, pulling me toward sleep like a gentle tide. “Jingle Bells,” “Joy to the World,” “We Three Kings,” "Silent Night" and "O Little Town of Bethlehem." I can feel the weight of the blankets, hear Stan's breathing beside me, see the shadows on the ceiling from the streetlights outside. The stockings hang by the hearth, hopeful.
Morning comes—too early and not early enough—and we're creeping down the hall in our pajamas, feet cold on the hardwood floors. The presents are there! By the fireplace! Our parents sleeping in the den wake up. We're unwrapping everything before the grandparents wake—the delicious rebellion of it!—trying to be quiet but failing, paper rustling and tearing in our eager hands. BB guns in 1954—we were going to be just like all the other kids in the neighborhood. Davy Crockett coonskin caps with the striped tail hanging down our backs. Flexible Flyers in '55—sleds on wheels, because what's snow in San Diego? Bicycles in '56, shiny and new and freedom itself.
Wait—we found those bicycles beforehand, didn't we? Stan and I, exploring Gramps' cluttered garage, that wonderful cave of secrets packed with generations of stuff. Workbenches and old tools, paint cans and mysterious boxes, the smell of motor oil and sawdust and time itself. We were playing hide and seek, I think, or maybe just exploring the way boys do, poking into everything. And there they were, partially covered with a tarp, two bicycles that looked exactly our sizes.
We looked at each other—Stan and I—and in that moment we made a pact without words. We didn't say anything. We just carefully covered them back up and walked away. On Christmas morning they appeared by the tree, tagged "from Santa Claus," and we played along, our faces arranged in perfect surprise. Why kill the golden goose? We were smart kids. We knew how to work the system.
I don't remember exactly when we stopped staying overnight at Gram and Gramps' for Christmas Eve. Probably early '60s, when Scott was little. Things change, don't they? Traditions shift and evolve, and you don't always notice until they're already gone.
The dream shimmers, and now I'm getting dressed up...
I'm pulling on a shirt—buttons that seem too small for my fidgeting fingers—and Stan is helping me with my tie, or maybe I'm helping him. We're heading to Aunt Emily's in Kensington, and I'm dreading it and anticipating it all at once. It's the only time we have to dress up like this, uncomfortable in our good clothes.
The house appears before me, and I can see it so clearly: Dorothy at her harp, her fingers moving across the strings, creating sounds we never heard anywhere else. She's wearing something artistic and flowing, not like what other mothers wore. The Christmas tree is covered in ornaments she made herself—none of those store-bought glass balls, but handcrafted things, each one different, each one strange and beautiful.
The dinner table is set with dishes I can't quite identify. Dorothy cooks things we've never had at home—probably fancy, probably good, but different in a way that makes us boys suspicious. We pick at our food politely while Aunt Emily—Dad's aunt, warm and doting—fusses over us, asking about school and telling us how much we've grown.
Chuck Chamberlain—everyone called him Chuck except Dorothy and Emily, who called him Marshall—sits at the head of the table, gruff and ornery. He'd grunt responses, tease us, make jokes that went over our heads. But now, in this dream, I can see past the gruffness. He was having fun with us, wasn't he? Playing the cantankerous uncle role but secretly enjoying the chaos we brought into their quiet, artistic household.
The best part—always the best part—was escaping to the backyard. The fish pond shimmer in my memory, goldfish the size of my hand gliding through green water. Cats prowling the edges, hoping to catch something but too well-fed to really try. That big awning swing where we'd pump our legs, trying to go higher and higher, seeing who could jump off from the greatest height.
Hide and seek in that yard was epic. Bushes to crouch behind, the garage to dart into, the space under the porch where you could squeeze yourself if you were small enough. Stan seeking, calling out "Ready or not, here I come!" His footsteps on the flagstone paths.
And Chuck's National Geographic magazines—I can see them now, stacked in the den, and somehow the issues with the most interesting pictures always seemed to be right on top where I could easily find them. Aboriginal tribes, ancient cultures, women in traditional dress or sometimes no dress at all. I thought I was being so sneaky, so clever. But Chuck knew. Of course he knew. He probably positioned them there deliberately, letting me have my adolescent discoveries in a safe way, never saying a word. In retrospect, he was a fun "uncle," teaching me things without teaching me, letting me learn while protecting my dignity.
The dream carries me to the front door, and there's a box...
A box from Massachusetts! I'm tearing it open—or maybe Mom is opening it carefully, trying to save the paper. Toys spilling out, board games we don't have, candy we've never tried. Grandmother Bessie Seaver sent this—Dad's mother, Emily's sister. Uncle Ed and Aunt Janet helped, and Aunt Gerry too. They're family we've never met, might never meet, but they know we exist. They know our names and our ages and they picked these things out for us specifically.
Every year without fail, that box arrived. A connection across three thousand miles, a reminder that we belonged to people beyond California, that we were part of something larger. The games were from East Coast companies, the candy sometimes melted or crushed from the journey. But it didn't matter. It was love in a box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
The scene shifts again—I'm on the floor now...
The trains! God, the trains snaking through our living room, into the bedroom, elaborate tracks everywhere. 'O' gauge Lionel trains, the real deal. Dad is on his hands and knees adjusting a switch. Stan is manning his locomotive. Scott is too little to really play yet, but he's watching with wide eyes. And I'm at my section of track, hand on the throttle.
"Ready?" Dad asks.
"Ready!" we chorus.
And we're off—trains racing toward each other on parallel tracks, engines humming, wheels clicking over the joints in the rails. We're trying to time it perfectly, to crash them at the intersection at maximum speed. Sometimes we succeed—spectacular derailments, cars tumbling, the smell of hot metal and electricity. Sometimes we miss, trains passing safely, and we groan in disappointment and set up for another run.
There's no scenery, no little plastic trees or buildings or people. No decoration at all. Just raw track and trains and competition. It's glorious. It's pure. It's father and sons in the most basic male bonding ritual: controlled destruction.
Each Christmas brings more track under the tree, more boxcars, more engines. The layout grows more complex—more switches, more crossovers, more opportunities for magnificent crashes. Mom just shakes her head and steps carefully over the tracks when she needs to cross the room.
The dream shifts—I'm older now, the colors changing, becoming richer...
I'm with Linda, and suddenly shopping isn't a chore anymore because she's brilliant at it. I can see us in department stores, her moving confidently through the aisles, knowing exactly what size Mom wears, what color Dad would like, what would Stan's wife would enjoy. I trail behind her, pushing the cart, occasionally suggesting something, but mostly just marveling at how she makes it look easy.
Christmas Eve at Mom and Dad's house on 30th Street—the same apartment where I grew up, but I'm entering it now as an adult, married, someone's husband. The rooms seem smaller than I remember. Mom has the table set beautifully. Dad is in his chair, already making jokes. Stan and Sheryl arrive, Scott comes in.
We exchange gifts, and I've learned the adult version of this ritual. You make the right appreciative noises. You thank people sincerely. You help clean up the wrapping paper (but play “throw it in the trash can with Stan and Scott). You offer to help in the kitchen. You've stopped thinking about what you're getting and started thinking about whether what you gave was good enough.
I'm searching for angels to add to Linda's collection, enjoying the hunt, the giving more than the receiving. Each one has to be special—not just any angel, but the right angel. Crystal angels, porcelain angels, wooden angels from different countries. I study them in shops, turn them over in my hands, imagine Linda's face when she opens the box. That's the gift, really. That moment of her surprise and pleasure.
Another shift—deeper into the dream, and suddenly everything is different...
Now I'm Santa Claus myself. How did that happen? When did I cross that threshold?
Our house on Via Trieste materializes around me. I can see every room, every corner. Lori is here—she was born in '74, so tiny and perfect and mine. And then Tami arrives in '76, and suddenly we're four. I'm watching them grow through Christmases like a time-lapse film: squeeze toys becoming dolls becoming playhouses becoming bicycles. Each stage going too fast, impossibly fast, and yet each Christmas seems to last forever in the moment.
We're picking out a tree together, the four of us at the lot on a cold December evening—as cold as San Diego gets, anyway. The smell of fresh-cut pine fills the air. "This one!" Lori shouts, pointing at a tree that's too big. "No, this one!" Tami counters, hugging a tree that's too small. Linda and I exchange glances over their heads, that parent telepathy that says, "They're perfect. This moment is perfect. Remember this."
We settle on a tree that's just right—not too big, not too small—and the lot attendant helps me tie it to the roof of the car. The girls are bouncing in the back seat on the drive home, singing Christmas songs on-key (I’m off-key), making up their own words.
I'm putting it on the stand in our living room, adjusting it to make it straight, tightening the screws while Linda directs: "A little to the left. No, too much. Back to the right. There! Perfect!" The girls are already pulling out the box of lights, tangling themselves in the strands, laughing.
I'm stringing lights while they bounce with excitement, testing each strand first because there's always one that doesn't work, always one bulb that needs replacing. The girls are handing me ornaments, narrating: "This one is from when I was three!" "Mama, remember when we made this one in school?"
Linda and the girls hang ornaments—popcorn strings that we made together, sitting at the kitchen table, threading kernels onto thread, the girls eating as many as they string. Paper chains in red and green, construction paper and glue and sticky fingers. Mom's precious copper enamel angels with their names etched in—"Lori" and "Tami" in her careful handwriting. These are treated with reverence, placed on the tree with ceremonial care. Handmade by Grandma, priceless treasures.
Then Linda decides: only angels. The whole tree. Every year. Angel ornaments of every size and style—ceramic, glass, fabric, wood, metal. Angels playing instruments, angels in flight, angels praying, angels singing. The girls sometimes protest—"But Daddy, I made this ornament in school, it's a Santa!"—but Linda's vision prevails. It's an angel tree. It's beautiful in its single-minded devotion to the theme.
Now it's Christmas Eve and the house is settling into that magical quiet...
I'm reading stories to the girls—"'Twas the Night Before Christmas," the words so familiar I could recite them in my sleep. Lori and Tami in their pajamas, smelling of soap and toothpaste, one on each side of me on the couch. Their small bodies pressed against mine, their breathing slowing as the story progresses. "'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!'"
We're setting out cookies and milk for Santa. The girls are very specific about this. "He likes chocolate chip best, Daddy." "Make sure the milk isn't too full or he might spill it." They arrange everything just so on the coffee table, then add a note in their careful printing: "Dear Santa, We were good this year. Thank you for the presents. Love, Lori and Tami." Sometimes they add carrots for the reindeer.
The girls go to bed after much negotiation—"Just five more minutes!" "Can we open just one present tonight?" "What if we can't fall asleep?" Linda reads them another story in their room, tucks them in, kisses their foreheads. I come in for my turn, and they're already drowsy, eyes heavy.
"Daddy, do you think Santa will really come?"
"Of course he will. He always does."
"But how does he get to every house?"
"Magic, sweetheart. Santa magic."
"Will he bring me what I asked for?"
"If you've been good. Have you been good?"
A pause. "Mostly good."
"That's all Santa asks. Mostly good is good enough." They were really good girls.
Finally they're asleep, and I'm in the garage, the door closed, assembling—always assembling. Bicycles spread out in pieces, tiny screws in plastic bags marked "A" and "B" and "C." Instructions in four languages, diagrams that don't quite match the actual parts. Kitchen playsets with forty-seven pieces, each one needing to be attached just so. My back aching from bending over, my fingers sore from screwdrivers and Allen wrenches. Working into the wee hours—one AM, two AM, is it three already?—my back aching, my heart full.
But I'm humming Christmas carols under my breath. Because this is it. This is being Santa Claus. This is the magic—not just the presents themselves, but the work of love that goes into them, the sacrificed sleep, the cramped fingers, the determination to have everything perfect for them in the morning.
I arrange everything under the tree. Take a bite of the cookies—Santa has to eat the cookies. Drink half the milk. Leave crumbs on the plate. The reindeer have eaten the carrots, of course. Everything has to look right.
Finally, I collapse into bed next to Linda. "Is it done?"
"It's done."
"You're a good Santa."
"I'm an exhausted Santa."
We sleep for what feels like minutes.
Six AM. Little feet pattering down the hall—or is it even earlier? Is it five-thirty? Five? Time has no meaning on Christmas morning. Shrieks and laughter echoing through the house, high-pitched voices: "He came! Santa came! Mama! Daddy! Wake up!"
Two small bodies bouncing on our bed, jumping like it's a trampoline, all elbows and knees and unbridled excitement. "Come on! Get up! You have to see! There are SO MANY PRESENTS!"
"Can we open them now?"
"Please please please!"
"Daddy, Santa ate the cookies! And drank the milk! And the carrots are gone!"
They're pulling at our arms, our hands, demanding we come RIGHT NOW before breakfast, before anything, before the sun is fully up. And we always do. Always. We stumble out of bed, Linda and I exchanging tired smiles, and we go.
The living room is transformed. The tree lights are already on—did the girls turn them on? The presents are everywhere, more than I remember putting there, though I put each one there myself just hours ago. The girls are vibrating with anticipation, barely able to contain themselves.
"Can we start? Can we? Can we?"
And we're opening presents, paper flying everywhere, ribbons and bows scattered across the floor. Shrieks of delight—"It's the doll I wanted!" "Look, Mama, look!" Each gift is examined, exclaimed over, hugged. They're so grateful, so purely happy. This is why I assembled things until three in the morning. For this. For these exact moments.
One year—they were very young, maybe three and five?—we had Christmas Day a day early because we were flying off to visit the Leland grandparents on actual Christmas Day. We explained it to them: "Santa knows we're traveling, so he's coming tonight instead." They accepted this without question. Santa was flexible. Santa understood logistics. We had our entire Christmas on December 23rd, and it was perfect, just as magical as any December 25th.
The dream carries me north, and I'm flying...
We're landing in San Francisco—or maybe we're driving, the miles of Highway 101 unspooling before us, the girls in the back seat with coloring books and cassette tapes. Every other year this is our Christmas, with Papa Lee and Mama Lee Leland.
Their house materializes around me—Linda's childhood home at 1726 47th Avenue, full of photographs and memories that aren't mine but now belong to our daughters. Papa Lee, tall and gentle, sweeping the girls up in his arms. Mama Lee with her soft voice and ready smile, already presenting wrapped packages, unable to wait.
They shower the girls with gifts and love—more gifts than we'd ever give them ourselves, probably too many gifts, but that's what grandparents do. Dolls and games and clothes and books, each one carefully chosen. Hugs and kisses and "Let me look at you! How you've grown!" The girls bask in it, soaking up the attention like sunshine.
We walk on the beach—Ocean Beach, the fog rolling in, the cold Pacific wind whipping our hair. The girls run ahead, chasing seagulls, collecting shells, squealing when the waves come too close and splash their shoes. Papa Lee walks with his hands in his pockets, telling stories about when Linda was their age. Mama Lee links her arm through mine, asking about our lives, about the house, about my work.
We drive around at night looking at lights, the girls pressed against the windows, pointing: "Look at that one!" "That house has icicles!" "Ooh, reindeer!" The neighborhoods compete with each other in displays, each house trying to outdo the next.
We visit Linda's aunts and uncles—I can't remember all their names in this dream, but I remember their houses, warm and full of people and food and conversation. The girls are passed from relative to relative, admired and cooed over, given candy and dollar bills and more presents.
One year—the girls were teenagers, maybe fourteen and sixteen?—we drove to Yosemite on the way home. Snow! Real snow! Not the kind we pretended to sled on in San Diego. The girls had never really seen it, not like this. We had snowball fights, built a snowman, made snow angels. They were too old to be as excited as they were, but they didn't care, and neither did we. Their laughter echoed off the granite walls, pure and joyful.
When we didn't go to San Francisco, the Lelands came to us, the pattern reversed. Our house filled with Linda's family, Papa Lee trying to figure out San Diego's layout, Mama Lee in the kitchen with Linda, the girls showing them their rooms, their toys, their treasures.
The dream shifts to church, and I'm in costume...
We're at the early service on Christmas Eve—7 PM, the church already full, families crowding into pews, programs rustling, children fidgeting in their nice clothes. The lights dim. The Christmas Story begins in song and drama.
I'm dressed as one of the Three Kings, wearing robes and a crown, carrying a gift. Not gold, frankincense, or myrrh, but a wooden box wrapped in cloth, meant to represent one of those treasures. I process down the aisle with the other kings, moving slowly, deliberately, following the star.
We arrive at the manger—a simple stable built on the altar, straw scattered around it, a wooden cradle. Mary and Joseph are there, members of the congregation in costume, looking down at the doll representing the Christ child. I kneel, present my gift, speak my lines: "I bring you gold, for you are the King of Kings."
From my position I can see Tami in the angel choir, wearing white robes and a tinsel halo. She's trying to look serious and holy, but I can see her scanning the congregation, looking for us. When our eyes meet, she gives me the tiniest smile, almost breaks character, then remembers and looks angelic again. My angel. My daughter.
The service ends with "Silent Night," everyone holding candles out around the large cross in the patio, , the lights dimmed, hundreds of tiny flames flickering in the darkness. "Sleep in heavenly peace." The members of the congregation wishing each other Merry Christmas, carrying that moment of transcendence with them, and then into the cold night warmed by the Holy Spirit.
Afterward we pile into the car—Linda, the girls, sometimes Papa Lee and Mama Lee if they're with us—and drive through Chula Vista to Christmas Tree Circle and Christmas Tree Lane. These neighborhoods go all out, every house decorated, some with synchronized light shows, some with elaborate nativity scenes, some with huge inflatable Santas and snowmen.
The girls press their faces against the windows, breath fogging the glass. "Look at that one!" "That's the best one!" "No, that one is!" We drive slowly, bumper to bumper with other families doing the same thing, all of us participating in this ritual, this pilgrimage to witness suburban Christmas excess in all its glory.
The dream darkens slightly, and I'm older now...
Dad died in 1983. The Christmas after that was the first without him, and everything felt off-balance, like a table with one leg shorter than the others. Mom tried to make it normal, but there was a hole in the room where he should have been.
We developed a new tradition: Mom or one of us three boys—me, Stan, or Scott—would host the family Christmas dinner and gift exchange. When we planned to go to San Francisco, this dinner was usually on the Sunday before Christmas or on Christmas Eve. The family rotating through our houses, the next generation learning how to host, how to make space for everyone.
The table would be full—Mom, Stan and Sheryl with Molly, Scott and his wife, my crew. Talk of sports—who's winning, who's playing, recapping the season. Work stories, kid stories, the comfortable rhythm of family conversation.
And then—inevitable as the tide—the competitions would start. Someone, probably Stan, would roll up his napkin and toss it at my water glass. It would miss, land in someone's plate. Laughter. Scott would try. Then me. Then suddenly we were all doing it, wadded napkins flying across the table, most missing, some landing with a satisfying plop in a glass.
Or tossing peas into glasses—who could get the most? We'd keep score, trash-talk each other, lean across the table for better angles.
Mom would take offense, her three aging barbarian boys ruining the spirit of the day. "Can't we have one nice dinner? One civilized Christmas? Do you have to turn everything into a competition?"
But she was smiling when she said it, or almost smiling, or pretending not to smile.
The wives—Linda, Sheryl, Scott's wife—would exchange looks. The look that said, "Men being boys." They'd tolerate it, shake their heads, maybe roll their eyes, but they'd seen this before. They knew this was how we connected, how we showed love, through competition and teasing and chaos.
The grandkids thought it was hilarious. They'd root for their dads, cheer when we made a shot, groan when we missed. Eventually they'd want to compete themselves. "Can I try? Let me try!" And we'd teach them, show them the proper wrist flick, the right arc. Passing down the tradition of Christmas dinner anarchy.
The dream accelerates, and suddenly there are five grandchildren...
Tami got married. Then Lori. And suddenly—how did this happen?—there are babies. Five beautiful grandchildren, appearing across the years like gifts I didn't know to expect.
They're so cute and innocent when they're young—darling little ones so full of energy and love, bright-eyed and happy—just like their mothers were at that age. I can see them as toddlers, learning to walk, grabbing at Christmas ornaments. As children, tearing into presents with the same wild abandon Lori and Tami once had. Growing, changing, becoming themselves.
Lori and her two boys live in Brookdale near Santa Cruz, in a cabin hidden in the redwoods. We make the pilgrimage, those two-week road trips, visiting them and Linda's brother in the Bay area. The drive up Highway 101, the Pacific on our left, cliffs and curves and breathtaking views.
Their house appears through the redwood trees, weathered wood and big windows, ferns everywhere. The boys—my grandsons—run out to greet us. They're young in this part of the dream, maybe six and nine, all scraped knees and missing teeth and boundless energy.
Christmas morning in their house, the tree surrounded by torn wrapping paper, the boys showing us their presents, explaining in detail how everything works, what it does, why it's the best present ever. Lori watching them with the same expression Linda used to have watching our girls—that mixture of love and exhaustion and wonder.
We play board games. Go for walks in the redwoods, the trees impossibly tall, the air cool and damp and green. The boys lead us to their secret spots—a fallen log they've claimed as a fort, down to the river bridge where they throw rocks into the stream, a tree they're learning to climb.
Then the dream shifts, and they're older. Teenagers. Young adults. The older boy is 22 now, the younger 19. They live away from home, college and work and building a life of their own. But they come back for Christmas week, to see their friends, back to their mother's house, for the wonderful food, back to being her boys for a little while.
When we don't travel to Santa Cruz, they come to us, flying or driving, arriving with suitcases and hugs. They're so tall now. When did they get so tall? They have to bend down to hug Linda and me.
In the alternate years, we drive up to Huntington Beach, to Tami and James's house. Three children there—the oldest is 20 now, then 17, then 11. The youngest still young enough to be excited about everything, the older ones trying to be cool but unable to hide their pleasure.
Christmas Day at their house, the organized chaos of a large family. Tami has inherited Linda's gift for making everything beautiful—the table set perfectly, decorations everywhere, each present wrapped with care. James cooking something in the kitchen, music playing, the kids arguing cheerfully about something.
We exchange gifts—I've learned to ask if they want gift cards (they always do!), no more guessing, too easy to get it wrong—but the most meaningful gift for me is the time spent with them. Just being there. Talking, listening, sharing stories, hearing about their lives, their hopes, their problems. Enjoying their company. Seeing their warm nests, the homes they've built, the lives they're living.
I watch Tami with her children and I see Linda. I watch Lori with her boys and I see myself. The patterns repeat, the love multiplies, the traditions continue.
I imagine that this is what my parents were thinking while we were growing up. That this—this connection, this continuity, this being together—is the real gift. The presents under the tree are just wrapping paper. This is what matters.
The dream grows heavy now, weighted with reality...
Linda broke her hip in 2021. The phone call, the hospital, the surgery, the rehab that didn't quite work. She can't walk now. Memory care. A facility where they help her, where she's safe, where she's cared for by people who aren't me.
I visit her before Christmas to share gifts. The common room decorated with a tree and lights, trying to be festive. Linda in her wheelchair, sometimes recognizing me immediately, sometimes taking a moment, sometimes looking at me like I'm familiar but she can't quite place me.
I bring her things—a soft blanket, a framed photo of the girls, some angels for her collection. We open them together, my hands guiding hers. She smiles, thanks me, sometimes remembers who I am, sometimes asks where I've been.
"I've been here, sweetheart. I come every day."
"Oh. That's nice."
Sometimes she thinks it's 1975 and the girls are little. "Do we need to get home for them?"
"They're grown now, Linda. They have their own children."
"Oh." A pause, processing. "That's nice."
Then I fly to Lori's house for several days, or drive to Tami's house on Christmas Day. The girls—not girls anymore, women in their middle age, mothers themselves—hug me extra tight. Ask how Mom is doing. I tell them she's fine, she's comfortable, she asked about them. This is mostly true.
We have Christmas, and it's wonderful, and there's a Linda-shaped hole in everything.
I'm floating again now, suspended between sleep and waking, all the Christmases layered together...
I've been all four parts now—the believer, the doubter, Santa himself, even looking like him with my white beard and round belly. I've cherished each stage, just like I said I would. Each one a gift. Each one perfect in its moment.
The train crashes with Dad and Stan and Scott. Christms carols with Gram. The boxes from Massachusetts, love sent across the miles. The bicycles we found but pretended not to know about. Chuck's magazines strategically placed. Dorothy's harp music, strange and beautiful.
The Christmas Eves reading stories to small girls in pajamas. The 3 AM assembly sessions in the garage. The 6 AM wake-up calls, little feet and big excitement. The beach walks with Papa Lee and Mama Lee. Playing one of the Three Kings while Tami sang in the angel choir. Driving through Christmas Tree Circle, lights reflecting off car windows and children's faces.
The competitions at dinner, peas and napkins flying, Mom protesting, the wives tolerating, the grandkids cheering. The road trips to Brookdale and Huntington Beach. The grandchildren at every age, every stage, growing before my eyes like a time-lapse film.
Linda in memory care, her smile when she recognizes me, her confusion when she doesn't.
It's Christmas Eve and I'm dreaming, and every Christmas I've ever known is happening at once—all of them layered together like ornaments on a tree, like transparent slides stacked on top of each other, each one catching the light differently, each one precious. I can see through them all simultaneously. The child I was, the husband and father I became, the grandfather I am.
The carols are starting. I can hear them, faint and distant and close and immediate all at once...
Gram is singing "Silent Night." Or is it Linda leading the girls in "O Little Town of Bethlehem"? Or the church choir singing "Joy to the World"? Or Mama Lee humming something while she sets the table? Or Dorothy's harp playing something I can't quite name?
All of them. All of them singing. All of them together, harmonizing across decades, across distance, across the veil between memory and dream.
I'm falling asleep, or waking up, or both. The boundary between them is thin, so thin I can't tell which side I'm on. I don’t want it to end.
The house is quiet. Tomorrow is Christmas. Or is it Christmas Eve? Or is it some Christmas from thirty years ago or fifty or sixty? Time folds in on itself like wrapping paper, and I'm in all of them at once.
Merry Christmas to Stan, wherever he is in this dream. To Scott. To Mom and Dad. To Gram and Gramps. To Aunt Emily and Dorothy and gruff old Chuck. To Grandmother Bessie and Uncle Ed and Aunt Janet and Aunt Gerry, sending love from Massachusetts.
Merry Christmas to Linda—my Linda, the girl I married, the woman I love, in memory care but here with me always, in every Christmas past and present, woven into every memory, every tradition, every moment of joy.
Merry Christmas to Lori and Tami, my girls, not girls anymore but always my girls. To my five beautiful grandchildren, some still young, some grown, all of them carrying forward the traditions we've built, creating new ones of their own.
Merry Christmas to all of them, to all of me, to every version of Christmas I've ever been blessed to know.
The stockings are hung. The cookies are set out. The tree lights are glowing. The presents are waiting.
And somewhere, somehow, I can hear the patter of little feet, the shrieks of laughter, voices calling "Wake up! Wake up! Santa came!"
I smile in my sleep.
He always does.
He always will.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
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3) The Google NotebookLM Video Overview of this post is below.
4) This story is mostly based on my memories and is pretty faithful to the source document. I edited the second draft for accuracy and consistency and added some details to it.
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