Home's the Place for Christmas

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
Of the editorial page staff
Published by the StarTribune
December 20, 1958


   I'LL BE HOME for Christmas--and glad to be there. None of this honking down the pike to Aunt Mary's for me , risking my neck in holiday traffic and wearing myself out driving. Aunt Mary lives too far away, and her mince pie isn't good enough to lure me from the fireside.
   Christmas is a home day and Christmas Eve a home evening. I have children and grandchildren I'd love to be with but don't hanker to see them and don't want them to come and see me.

   THIS sounds heartless and demands explaining. Had my wife and I only ourselves to consider we might be induced to hit the road for the holidays. But we have a 10-year-old who associates Christmas with home. He would kick like a mule if he had to be away.
   Our grandchildren are of similar mind. They love us dearly, I assume, but our home is not their home. They want the thrill of being tucked into their own beds. They want to imagine the reindeer on their own roof. They want Santa to come down their chimney. They want to gather at their own tree next morning and observe their own Christmas customs.

   CHILDREN get too much jouncing around at all seasons. I have yet to see one with much tolerance for long travel, irregular and unfamiliar meals and strange beds. And Christmas gets such a big and early buildup now that young ones are half sick from excitement by the time the day arrives. To be pushed and pulled through pre-Christmas crowds is no boon to their health, either.
   There is always the chance, too, that a moppet will go south with too hefty a piece of fruitcake on the big day and suffer sharp and insistent misery in the midriff. If he's going to be sick, he's better off being sick at home.

NOT  NORMAL FOR CHRISTMAS

   TO ME the ideal Christmas Day is leisurely and undemanding. At our place breakfast is an uncertain, catch-as-catch-can, serve yourself affair. That's how we prefer it. It usually comes about 10 a.m. after the gifts are opened.
   We set no store in bountiful Christmas dinners. Unless guests are coming and expect them, we don't emphasize big feeds. A big feed means work, and kitchen slavery is particularly onerous on Christmas Day, even when the slave is your wife.
   After all that shopping, gift wrapping, stamp licking, cookie making, decorating and double-checking to be sure that a card has been sent to the Greens at their new address, a wife shouldn't have to wrestle a turkey or mash potatoes. She shouldn't that is, unless so inclined. Some women think it their bounden duty to knock themselves out on special days. Those so inclined are beyond help.

CARROMS

CROKINOLE 

   YOU SHOULD allow time to play those new Christmas games with your child. We played a lot of crockinole and carroms on Christmas when I was a boy and my father enjoyed it all as much as we did.
   Such pastimes would be laughed out of the living room today, I suppose, as would primitive wind-up trains and automobiles. I spent considerable time last Christmas playing Monopoly with my son, however, and think crokinole would have been preferable. Crokinole doesn't demand much thought.
   Dad also read aloud from our new Christmas books. That sort of thing isn't done much now.

   BUT EXCEPT for the greater advance blare, Christmas hasn't changed fundamentally and won't. There's still the humble beauty of its divine origin, still the promise of peace on earth and universal goodwill.
   I think it should be kept simple and uncluttered, undefined by raucous celebration or frantic scurrying about. There should be time for meditation and appreciation of family. There should be some singing around the piano, some harking back to Christmases past.
   You can do all this only in one place--home. That's why I'm glad I'll be there.

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