Why Thanksgiving Beats the Hell Out of Christmas

Several years ago, I watched a so-called Christmas special that nearly served the purpose I thought it meant to fulfill. It came so close. The half-hour animated program centered upon the fictional town of Whoville, whose denizens were aptly called the Whos: willowy, slightly furry creatures who were busy preparing for Christmas. They were all doing the decorating thing and the singing thing, which was OK, I didn’t mind that too much, but they were also jacking up their credit cards and putting themselves deeper into debt at exorbitant interest rates in a pathetic, desperate attempt to slake the unquenchable thirst of their greedy, materialistic children — who in turn lived only to acquire more and more expensive electronic gadgets and overpriced designer clothing, caring nothing for the perilous state of the family finances. The grownups put up a brave front, wearing bland smiles to hide the stress churning within, while the children also showed happy countenances, lit by an unmistakable avaricious glee. It was sickening.

The hero of this tale was a fellow called the Grinch. From his mountaintop lair, he saw all too well how the meaning of Christmas had been perverted, and, being of an altruistic turn, he conceived a plan to teach this modern-day Sodom a lesson in spiritual morality. So, very early Christmas morning, he dressed himself like the false god Santa Claus and, with the aid of his remarkable dog, relieved each household of this soul-harming junk (all of it, by the way, cleverly concealed in colorful, harmless looking packages — poison with a perfume scent). It was a truly Herculean effort, and I was on tenterhooks to see what effect it would have.

And this is what I saw: the Whos awoke Christmas morning, immediately perceived their liberation from this terrible, longstanding habit of grasping piggishness, then contritely gathered in the town square to sing a paean celebrating their spiritual recovery. It was so beautiful, so moving, my eyes grew misty as I watched.

But then everything turned sour. The Grinch, who watched all of this in amazement, suddenly suffered a bizarre cardiac episode. His heart immediately enlarged several sizes too big for is his anatomy to handle (a strange accelerated form of dilated cardiomyopathy, no doubt). The unwonted torrent of blood that resulted from this must have traumatized his brain, because, in a hideous moment of mental collapse, the Grinch inexplicably returned to Whoville all the materialistic crap he had earlier saved them from! The result: no lesson learned.

I suppose this was one cynical writer’s idea of realism: you know, avoid the fairy tale ending and prove yourself some kind of genius (apparently it was a doctor of who wrote it — although doctor of what I can’t tell you). I was so disgusted it took all I could to keep from throwing the remote through the TV screen.

But let’s face it, Christmas is the most overrated, costly, and stressful of all the holidays. So much money, angst, and planning for one day out of a calendar of 365 makes absolutely no sense. If people would just try practicing a little mind over marketing, perhaps they could see it. Please tell me if this is or is not true: isn’t Christmas meant to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ? Is not “christ” the root word of Christmas? Well, yes or no? If the answer is yes, then let me ask you this: are flying reindeer and happy, industrious elves part of the iconology of the Christian Church? I only ask because I’ve never seen them on any stained glass window. And granted, though it’s been a while since Sunday School for me, I don’t remember Santa Claus in the manger with baby Jesus, unless he was traveling incognito as a wise man. Pursuing this line of thought, did Bethlehem have a Best Buy or Walmart? Did Joseph and Mary use Frequent Flyer Miles for their trip to Egypt? Did Mammoth Multi-Media Megacorp own the naming rights to the star that guided the shepherds and the wise men? This enquiring mind wants to know.

It’s a cliche, but it’s true: Christmas is way, way over-commercialized. It’s a monstrosity, a burlesque of what it should be, a holiday turned unholy. Don’t even call it Christmas — call it Crassmas. It’s about shopping at the last minute for stuff you can’t afford for people who will look at it once, shake it twice, then put it down and forget about it. It’s traffic jams and fighting over parking spaces in mall parking lots. It’s writing the same hackneyed phrase on a million Christmas cards to people you hardly ever talk to. It’s a careful gift wrapping job ripped to shreds and the thoughtful card accompanying it cast aside unopened. It’s four page statements with your Visa and MasterCard bills and a credit card debt that stretches from the south to the north pole. It’s Christmas spirit in the form of rude hand gestures by drivers reacting to your protests when they cut you off in standstill traffic to advance their progress exactly one car length. Ho ho ho, you ho, ho, ho! Oh, yeah. Jolly, all right. Boil ’em with their own pudding, I say, and bury ’em with a stake of holly through their hearts!

Ahem.

Now, people, please review the illustration below. That’s Norman Rockwell’s famous painting Freedom from Want. A nice Thanksgiving dinner, isn’t it? The family is all assembled. There’s Ma and Pa working the turkey, Jim Bob laughing at something Granny just said. Brother Billy Joe’s hot wife, Maybelle, is exchanging a pleasantry with Aunt Clara, while Uncle Elmo laughs and thinks, “Ain’t she a peach!” Little Juney is peering around Jim Bob, checking to see if Pastor Lundquist appears too tipsy to say grace (he’d been hitting Ma’s cider punch pretty hard earlier), and Pa’s hired hand, Ernie, looks back at us as if to say, “We’ll be bustin’ some buttons after this one, folks!”



That’s Thanksgiving. Simple, clean, very little pressure. See, no one has to break open their piggy banks or put themselves into hock for this holiday. If people are fair about it, they each will bring a dish or two to help out the hosts. And then what else do you have to do? Sit around, talk, over-indulge a little bit (what the hell? it’s Thanksgiving!). Let the kids hang out with their cousins, watch some football, maybe play some cards. Then, after a few hours, pack everyone in the car and head on home. That’s it! Simple!

Giving thanks for what you have beats losing half of it on a few unappreciated trinkets purchased in an overcrowded department store. Sharing a joke and helping yourself to more mashed potatoes is far more desirable than holding up a loud tie with a frozen smile on your face. Raising your hand in a toast is infinitely preferable to massaging it after addressing your hundredth Christmas card. Do you want to know what symbolizes Christmas for me? The trash of Christmas: a dead tree lying in the snow, its needles turned brown with bits of tinsel clinging to its lifeless limbs, stirred occasionally by a cold breeze, crowded by bags upon bags of discarded packaging. Just what the hell’s so merry about that? Huh? Huh?

Bah! Humbug!

The editors wish to point out that if Mr. Schprock’s wife reads this, he still wants the Lionel Elvis Presley Train Set with Fastrack and the G.I. Joe with Kung Fu grip.