During my much younger days, there were certain times of the year that I would tend to assign a certain significance to that might seem overindulgent during my current ‘mature’ days. Any holiday that an earlier model of me was aware of could easily earn a mental Times Square style ball drop to count it down. Especially the ones with candy, presents, and their own television specials. There were also other, not so obvious, revered annuals that Hallmark has yet to create a card for. Monumental milestones on my preteen internal calendar, prefaced with infinite days of anticipation, taking seemingly as many more to arrive, yet passing into memory as quickly as a longing sigh.
The last day of school, for example, was one such eagerly awaited threshold. Joyously shared and celebrated by all kids, teachers and school bus drivers. Mortally dreaded by parents and babysitters the world over. As the concept of time was more elastic to me as a kid, the last day of school meant the dawn of the age of summer vacation. Millennia would pass, full of endless days of playing with friends in the neighborhood, riding our bikes in everybody else’s driveways, walking the dried-out creek and reading comic books. Yet, somehow that age would quickly pass, as I would again find myself partaking in the ancient ritual of posing sheepishly for the first-day-of-school photo in front of the arriving school bus. Unbeknownst to me, as the bus pulled away and carried me back to the academic grind, my mom would partake in a little celebratory ritual of her own.
The start of another school year would rudely snap me back into a more rigid time scape, but only a few weeks would have to pass before another cherished childhood annual would arrive by the toot of the mailman’s horn. And a literal annual it was. It’s exact arrival every year was always a mystery, otherwise my brother and I would be camping under the mailbox for days to be the first to tear it from the mailman’s hands. Its delivery would kick off a tumultuous, but cherished seasonal countdown to Christmas.
The Sears Wish Book was our childhood portal onto the mecca that was Toyland. Each slightly-thicker-than-tissue-paper page displayed a treasure trove of the latest in die cast and injected-molded plastic innovation. Except for the boring clothes sections, these pages would barely survive the next few months, as my brother and I would wage a war over whose turn it was to scrutinize every discernible detail of every toy on every delicate page.
I imagine our parents were overjoyed when both a Montgomery Ward’s and Sears catalog arrived, earning them a reprieve from the negotiations table of whose turn it was to have the catalog. My brother and I would each snatch a catalog, squirrel it away to our rooms and never be heard or seen from again until Thanksgiving. Mom and Dad would then relax and enjoy the armistice. The only thing that could get us out of our rooms for the next few weeks, once toy catalogs arrived, was school, dinner or a seasonal tv special. Bathroom breaks became multitasking sessions with catalog in tow.
It was during this time of self-seclusion that serious strategies came into play, as we each started drafting the ultimate wish list to send to Santa. A first survey of each catalog served as a joyous visual romp through the bountiful, copious offerings. The next twenty or so passes would consist of blatant and rampant covetousness as my brother and I would pepper our initials everywhere. The most desired toys could be easily identified by the multiple times one of us would scratch out the other’s initials and replace his own next to prize bounty.
During each possession of a catalog, subversive tactics would ensue to affirm that our respective list was the one list containing only the best toys, and heaven help the other brother if he also had the same ideas. If tensions were high enough, one might find their initial inexplicably placed next to an Easy Bake Oven, a Barbie Doll, or somewhere in the no-man’s land of the clothing sections. It was a wonder that, after Thanksgiving, ragged holes were not worn into most of the pages from the ceaseless counter-attacks on each other’s plundering agenda.
As I write this, a handful of decades later, I realize that this seasonal, juvenile, acquisitive business my brother and I shared in, may seem shallow, greedy, and indifferent through our present wisened perceptions. As boyish pre-adolescents, we thought every kid did this sort of thing as we all neared the holiday season. Today, I treasure those memories, and am acutely aware of how fortunate I was to be able to have lived in circumstances that allowed those memories to happen and be part of my childhood. Not for the material wanting of the plethora of toys offered in those catalogs, but succumbing to the seductive marketing ploys aimed at many a youthful imagination, with promises of endless euphoria that could be had by many a fanciful plastic manifestation.
The pure naivete of such a ‘simpler time’ full of these kid-derived milestones are what I cherish now more than ever, as I experience the holidays with my grandkids. They will never know that annual excitement when the toy catalogs came each year, because those inch thick annuals are extinct. Online shopping killed mail-order long before those iconic brand names shared similar fate. The grand boys and girls will never understand the dire consequences of missing a Christmas TV special and then having to wait through the rest of the school year, an endless summer, the start of another school year before the next chance to see it again.
Holiday TV specials were rigidly scheduled, one-time doses of anticipation-fuel that continued to stir us into a frenzy that THE day was ever nearer. We would mentally check each one off as they aired: Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph, Santa Claus is Coming to Town and Emmit Otter’s Jug-band Christmas, (if you know that one, then you were a tv special die-hard). By the time Charlie Brown (now only on Apple TV) came on, my brother and I were hopped-up on so much yuletide that our wide pupils had peppermint stripes in them. Today, I can’t remember the last time any of the original big three networks aired these specials, but they can be found in any three-dollar video bin at Wal-farts or streaming on any smart-device nearest you.
With each and every holiday I spend with our kids and their kids, creating and sharing new memories that, some far-away day, they may recount as fondly as I am doing now, I start to wonder something more and more. When I was their age, deep under the influence of the festivities, cheer and spirit of the holidays, and had I even the slightest synapse of the presence of mind to stop and look around, would I see the same far-off, pining gleam of adoration in the eyes of my parents and grandparents that I feel welling up in mine today?
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
izzy806
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
areudirty
dailybridgerton
