Christmas Schmaltz

If Frank reads this he's going to laugh and harass me about the possibly oxymoronic nature of the title.

I'm an easy cry at the best of times, and Christmas is not the best of times. Well, it is the best of times, as opposed to the worst of times, but it still makes me cry. Not in a bad way, you understand, but in a mushy, sentimental, schmaltzy way. I cry at the coffee commercial when the grown son comes home. I cry at telephone and greeting card commercials. I'm sentimental about carols. I wax nostalgic for Christmasses I've never known. I've never sat around playing "The Minister's Cat" at a Christmas party, as they did in "Scrooge!" I've never hauled in a Yule log. I've never received a lump of coal in my stocking. Yet, I cry over these things as if they were a part of my long-lost childhood.

Perhaps it's because both my parents are dead, or because, having been raised as an only child, I have no siblings with whom to share memories. Maybe the fact that I have not kept in touch with friends I had in my youth has something to do with it. I have no clue!

But, in the days and weeks before Christmas, any little thing can set me off. I keep thinking I'll outgrow it, but, at my age, that is looking more and more unlikely.

So, I will haul out my pocket packs of tissues, and keep them handy. There's a Hallmark commercial coming on!