by Jean Sidden

Created on: December 01, 2009

The love affair America has with the fantasy of Christmas is a fairly new notion. We seem to base it on an immersion into songs, films, Christmas cards and books that perpetuate the same feeling of grand abundance, ecstatic children and endless prosperity. 2009 is quite a challenging arena for the American dream of Christmas.

Clement Moore wrote "A Visit From St. Nicholas" in 1822. The poem's fantasy wonderland of softly blanketed snowfall and the "jolly old elf" who deftly bestows gifts in the darkness of a glistening winter night is the Christmas America has always aspired to.

No doubt the family of Mr. Moore's poem resided in luxury, at least as it was defined in the early 19th century. Their large stone edifice was cozy with blazing fires in every room. It was so toasty and warm that Papa, who might've been Moore, could literally open a window and let the cold of winter in while standing in his nightshirt watching Santa. The comfortably bedded down children had several cats and dogs snuggling in the bedclothes with them or lounging by the fire. The Christmas tree at the Moore house was twelve feet high, cut down by hand and joyfully whisked away in a horse drawn sleigh.

Flashing forward to 2009 we see a single parent apartment where the utility bills are overdue so the gas was just turned off. The children are sleeping four to a bed to keep warm. Cats and dogs are too expensive to feed so the family has no pets. The Christmas tree is artificial and there seems to be an issue with the children believing in Santa Claus because it's a lie to make them think they'll be swimming in mountains of gifts on Christmas morning.

Is this our depressing reality? Well, yes, perhaps, but it is reality, nonetheless. Wide spread poverty was no doubt the majority's reality in 1822, except for life in the Moore household. The quaintness and picturesque quality of our Christmas fantasy was sealed in this one poem that made it all sound so easy.

Every year we feed ourselves with the longing for chestnuts roasting on an open fire, sleigh bells ringing ("are ya' listenin'?") and nearly being like a picture print by Currier and Ives. These unrealistic images, made palatable by the conduit of catchy tunes that we've known for a lifetime, are like a drug that gets us through one of the most stressful times of the year.

We need the fantasy and foolishness of the Clement Moore Christmas. Faced with the acceleration in activity and fatigue brought on by all the holiday obligations, the dreamlike image of a twelve foot tree and a blazing fire are like a carrot being dangled in front of a horse. "Maybe this year," we think, "we'll get it; the perfect Christmas card Christmas."

In fact, our single parent still wakes up Christmas morning having left a few things for each child, purchased on lay away from a large discount store, under her too green fake tree. She will have a joyful morning watching her children play and laugh. At noon they will all go over to grandma's house where more gifts (and grandma's dog) await and Mom's sisters and brothers bring food (and more gifts) to create a huge Christmas feast. There are two weeks of inexpensive dinners worth of leftovers for Mom to take home and by the end of the day her children are as overwhelmed with presents, stuffed with food and blissfully exhausted as the children in Clement Moore's house in 1822. The reality has met the dream and in fact, Christmas is a spirit after all.

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