Question #11:
During the holiday season, what specific aspect of being a young child do you miss the most?

When I was very young, I would wake on Christmas morning to find a trail of red construction paper footprints leading from my bedroom door to wherever my stocking was waiting. Usually, it would be so stuffed with tiny packages, that it would have fallen from its hook and sometimes this made me sad. Mostly, though, I looked forward to discovering what good things would come from those tiny boxes.

That anticipation hasn’t completely disappeared, but it’s waned a lot as I’ve grown older, and the unwavering belief in Santa and Magic has transformed to fleeting moments of complete suspension of disbelief, and the limited ability to turn off the jaded part of my brain.

I miss the innocence of childhood. I miss looking forward to those paper footprints. I miss the bubble of delight that would form in my chest when I saw packages labeled “To Melissa, from Santa” in red or green glitter. I miss the security of knowing my mother would always be my fiercest protector, and I miss the dreams of seeing a reindeer-powered sleigh cross the night sky.

When I was six, I believed it when the folks at channel 9 said they were tracking a UFO coming from the North Pole on Christmas Eve. Thirty years later, I watch the news and wish for such stories.

Welcome to the December Question of the Day. Please post your answer in your own journal or blog, and comment here.

Question #11:
During the holiday season, what specific aspect of being a young child do you miss the most?

I’m not really in the mood to do essay length questions today, and so I offer a two-fer instead:

Question #9:
If you were going to write an editorial column for your city’s newspaper covering any Christmas (or other winter holiday) topic of your choice, what would you write about?

Personally, I think the ultimate Christmas editorial has already been written. I refer, of course, to Frank P. Church’s editorial which appeared in the New York Sun on September 21, 1897, in response to an eight-year-old girl’s letter. We know it by it’s signature phrase, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” (And, by the way, Ed Asner does a reading of this that is just amazing.)

I’ve just reread it (and you can, too) over at Newseum.org (direct link: Yes, Virginia), and I think it not only withstands the test of time, but is not just readable, but relevant to today’s world. After reading it, I always want to clap my hands together, and answer Peter Pan’s plea, crying to the world, “I do believe in faeries!” Because, deep down, a part of me still does.

So if I were to write an editorial, not that I could top Mr. Church, it would have to be all about the death of hope, and the loss of childhood innocence, and how we MUST reclaim those elements of childhood as adults to prevent ourselves from being bitter, sad, lonely people.

Question #10:
If you had to receive the same gift year after year, what would it be and why?

Actually, I do receive the same gift year after year. I always get a small wheel of brie in my stocking. Oh, it’s chilled up to the point of stocking placement, of course (and brie is served runny, anyway), but ever since I was about seven, and was introduced to said cheese, it’s been showing up on Christmas morning. I’m generous though. I share it. Well, usually.

Seriously though, and assuming that money doesn’t count, I think if I had to pick one non-food tangible item, it would be something like a bottle of Clinique’s HAPPY - something I love, but never buy for myself, and would last about a year.

Welcome to the December Question of the Day. Please post your answer in your own journal or blog, and comment here.

Late, (and also paraphrased) because yours truly has been in an antihistamine induced haze:

Question #10:
If you had to receive the same gift year after year, what would it be and why?

Welcome to the December Question of the Day. Please post your answer in your own journal or blog, and comment here.

Question #8:
(Paraphrased because the book is upstairs, and bed is warm.) If there is one person whom you haven’t been in contact with in a while, and chose to get in touch with over the holidays, who would it be, and how would you start the conversation?

I spent yesterday writing Christmas cards to friends and family, and didn’t finish til well after midnight, so was too tired to write. Sometimes even I get behind on my own meme-things. This should make the rest of you feel better :)

Today, I want to talk to you about Ben, the first boy I ever loved.

I don’t remember how I met him - if it was at Palo Alto preschool (in Arvada, Colorado), or if it was through our neighbors and mutual friends, Heather and Kerry who lived in the big yellow house up the block, that reminded me of the Murray home from A Wrinkle in Time. I loved that house. I still lust after that house.

In any case, we did meet, when we were both at the advanced age of five and ripe for true love. He was sweet, not like the other boys, and he and his mother lived with our preschool teacher, Ray, over on the next block. I never knew the story there, but it didn’t matter. Ben and I bonded instantly, and our mothers became good friends.

We had many adventures together, like tobagganing down upper 16th street in Golden, Colorado, and not getting killed by the traffic on the main road at the bottom. Or climbing to the top of the small hill outside Georgetown, CO, which I suspect was a popular make-out spot for older kids. We learned to ice-skate together, but I graduated to single blades before he did. He let me sing at him a lot, and said he liked it. We shared peanut-butter-and-honey-on-pita sandwiches, and shared his trundlebed, or my bunkbeds, during sleepovers.

One night, in the totally innocent way that little kids do, he offered to show me his penis. “Sure,” I said, curious. Later, I think I said it was stupid or gross or some other five-year-old girl word that means, “Um, okay, and what am I supposed to do with *that*?” On an afternoon in the back of my mother’s blue VW bug - the classic kind, which was the only kind in 1976, we shared our first kiss. Chaste. Quick. But neither of us said “Iewww.”

He always smelled like cinnamon and soap and vanilla and grass (the lawn kind, not the kind you smoke.)
He always held my hand like it was - like I was - a treasure.
I lost track of him when we were both eight.

If my life were a romance novel, I’d have found him right before I met Fuzzy, and we’d have fallen in love and lived happily ever after, but my life isn’t a romance novel. Or, well, it IS, but it’s not that predictable. Fuzzy isn’t Ben, Fuzzy’s himself, and he understands me, and puts up with me, and grounds me when I’m in need of that, and spoils me as much as he can, and our hearts beat together.

But you can’t help but wonder. I can’t help but wonder.
And if I ran across Ben, on the net, in person, I know just what I’d say: “So, I never returned your etch-a-sketch.”

Welcome to the December Question of the Day. Please post your answer in your own journal or blog, and comment here.

Question #9:
If you were going to write an editorial column for your city’s newspaper covering any Christmas (or other winter holiday) topic of your choice, what would you write about?

Welcome to the December Question of the Day. Please post your answer in your own journal or blog, and comment here.

Question #8:
(Paraphrased because the book is upstairs, and bed is warm.) If there is one person whom you haven’t been in contact with in a while, and chose to get in touch with over the holidays, who would it be, and how would you start the conversation?