Do you remember writing letters to Santa?

I vaguely remember thumbing through the pages of the Wishbook that used to arrive at my parents’ house in the late fall. I’m sure my letters to Santa consisted of about half of the Wishbook’s contents. But mainly, I think I probably just asked for two or three specific things and Santa always came through.

I, like most of you, have very specific memories of Christmas morning through the years. My earliest memories are of those at my grandparents’ house in Childersburg. My sister and I were usually awake before dawn’s early light. We’d creep down the hall to the room where our parents were sleeping soundly.

We’d tap lightly at the door and ultimately open it if no answer came. Then our parents would yell at us, send us back to bed where we’d wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. What was probably only an hour or so seemed like an eternity.

I vaguely remember the glee of hearing them finally walk down the hall toward our room, opening the door and letting us come out. I also vaguely remember jogging toward my grandparents’ den to see what Santa had left for us. It was always magical.

Christmas mornings are a little different for me now, as I’m sure they are for you, too. I’m old and cranky, so I prefer my sleep. Since I’m now a guest at my parents’ house, I sleep on whatever space is available. And I like my sleep.

The joy of wondering what Santa Claus has brought me has been replaced by wanting to sleep in. My first Christmas gift is a strong cup of coffee that will jolt me into holiday merriment.

Once I’m awake, I’ve found I can live vicariously through my two nephews who still have that wide-eyed wonderment on Christmas morning. They race down my parents’ stairs and search immediately for their bounty.

After they’ve surveyed their own pile of loot, they’ll survey each other’s pile of loot, possibly in an effort to ascertain who was naughtier and who was nicer.

After the Santa barrage, my mom makes a breakfast fit for three kings of orient (are). After we’re full of biscuits and bacon, I usually wind up playing Santa Claus and handing out gifts because everyone else just kind of sits around and waits for me to do it.

This is followed by the actual gift opening. I like to take my time opening gifts and savor the moment. After all, it won’t happen again for another year.

Once we’ve opened our gifts, we thank each other endlessly. At that point, my father continues his own Christmas tradition — the cathartic burning of Christmas wrapping paper, boxes and the occasional gift.

This has been my Christmas morning for the last several years. In a couple of years it will change again as I prepare to enter into the world of matrimonial bliss in less than four months.

However, Christmas traditions are those in which all families and individuals hold dear. They are often what keep us going through the doldrums of everyday life.

Whatever your Christmas tradition may be, savor it. Enjoy it. If your traditions are unpleasant, change it and create something magical.

Whatever your tradition may be, I would like to wish all our readers and advertisers a very, merry Christmas.

Commentary/ Adam Smith