Christmastime

The past can be a dangerous place to spend time in.  Stay too long, and you’re liable to start talking about how great things used to be.  For you, maybe, for anyone who was lynched, not so much.  But this is the time of year the past is the most appealing to me, the most tempting.

We didn’t have extravagant Christmases when I was growing up, but they were nice, and my parents always made sure that I got a couple of good toys to make up for the disappointment that came from receiving clothes.  (EBay has allowed me to start reacquiring the contents of my toy chest, by the way.)  My father grew up in a one-parent household, except for those years with his stepfather, who wanted my grandmother to get rid of the two kids she had by her first husband.  Good times.

So, when I think of Christmases past, the memories tend to be bittersweet because of what my dad went through.  God knows what they’re like for Clare; she’ll tell you how I was a real tree-Nazi every December.  Everything had to be just right, and God forbid she drop an ornament.  We had a number of ornaments from my parents, and if one of those broke, it would’ve been like taking something precious away from my dad.

The autographed picture of Walt Williams I bought recently is both Christmas gift and New Year’s resolution.  Williams is taking a swing along the third base side of Comiskey Park, those glorious arches that circled the park in the background.  He’s wearing the red pinstriped uniform of the early 1970s, and, for a publicity shot, he sure looks serious.  Walt is also sporting some serious sideburns.

Williams had a life not unlike my dad’s, in its trials and disappointments.  The one was a ballplayer who never quite established himself as a regular, this despite a ten-year big-league career, and the other was a man who had to navigate life with a seventh-grade education.  Sometimes, we’re lucky with the heroes we choose.

Now, I have to find a good spot to hang that picture, so that’ll feel like Christmas year-round.