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Good grief, the birthday of Sam Clemens (Mark Twain) recently slipped by me, but it didn’t escape notice of a major media writer who came up with an illuminating fact, one of the writer’s early items of note was Clemens/Twain predicting his own birth and death. I re-read to make sure I had it, and so I did.

Predicting one’s death would be noteworthy all by its lonesome, but to hold forth and communicate before one’s existence is truly marvelous. Woe unto pro-choice if that be true. But it’s not.

I’ll wager heavily if asked. Not a wager, someone was paid good money to posit Clemens’/Twain’s speaking from the womb, followed by a much to relaxed (gummy involvement, perhaps) editor who nodded assent. But, good luck brings better fish to fry.

Not sure about anyone else, but I get visibly annoyed when people start throwing around their version of the true meaning of Christmas.

BAA! They don’t know in detail what happened or how retelling and time rebuilt the tale. I’d opine that after a few thousand years we can’t know or tell, can we? If you can, good for you, but as for me there’s not a chance I can get into the mind and culture of pre-Christian small-town Jewry, in Bethlehem as we’ve been told.

Can you, I, or anyone have an opinion on what the holiday was or is? Absolutely. From sacred to secular, we will vary. That’s fine. Those who hold floodlit aluminum trees are the real thing can hold forth against the proponents of the humble balsam fir. (I’m a fir leaner, myself. And, yes, I accept the candle-lit tree as not exactly a Middle Eastern addition.)

However,  as someone with his own personal stake in Christmas I feel entitled to speak with a tad more authority stemming from having my own holiday song. Yes, me. I do.

I refer modestly to “Hark the Harry Angel Sings,” written before my birth to in that way elevate me to a position pronouncedly preceding that of Twain/Clemens’ pre-birth predictive achievement. (I need an ice cube to ease my tongue after such heavy use of the plosive p.)

Having started down a path with a name, I confess my name becoming a personal issue roughly around middle school. Tagged between an unimpressive past President (Harry S T.) and a surname from Polish hill-people, I felt handicapped. Why couldn’t I be an acceptable Bob Jones or Henry Smith?

Luckily there wasn’t much middle schoolers could do with Drabik other than mispronounce it. Harry, on t’other hand, sounded exactly like hairy at a time in life when the kiss of puberty brought the presence of hair in formerly hair-free places.

Stepping into a hall in Grade Eight and hearing “Harry” I was happy if what followed was a mere “nose” or even “butt” and not Richard’s god-awful nickname or an association calling on the round products of Wilson, Voit or Spaulding. A cross, so to speak, to be borne. Whether the angel is hairy or Harry stays unsettled.

I feel much the same about the meaning of Christmas. Not for me to take on that large order.

On the other hand, I can say I prefer some things over others. F’r instance, I’m not opposed to inflatable Christmas figures, but don’t see them as all that wise in a world with wind. But, as you wish.

Having endured aluminum trees suffering under rotating colored spotlights, I can watch the rise and fall of airy decorations. The tree I put up gets decorated with old and newer. I’ve set aside the original Noma Bubble Lights for modern ones, so at least the idea is there, and there are a few glass ornaments from my mother’s mother.

There are different ways to remember people, the Christmas tree being one for me. Christmas was the first sign that I had excessive parents, ones who’d put me to bed Christmas Eve and then slave over getting the tree up and decorations done before morning. A crazy lot of work considering how other saved and reused every piece of tin tinsel (true, still have some).

Christmas helped me catch on to mom and dad’s craziness long before I admitted my own. Might be a lesson for me there.

I don’t go to mom’s extremes decorating. As a boy I learned to keep on the move to avoid getting flocked. Mom baked fruitcake. I helped. Mostly with eating but also with wrapping in foil for gift giving. These days I buy fruitcakes to give. Had to do so after running out of steam making the metal tins. Once the edge roller wore out I gave it up. Hooray for Collin Street in Corsicana, Texas.

In any case, I think we’re free to go as holiday under or over board as we wish. Reminds me, in the late ’50s dad decided on all-out for a decorating contest in Hoyt Lakes. Froze our rears off, well I did anyway, putting up enough lights to cheer MP&L. We won an electric bean pot. Never entered the contest again. Fine with me.

Some of us more rational, proper-thinking people find fault in all the fuss. I see that. On the other hand for those who handle all beliefs as equal, no. There are significant differences evaluating beliefs as in, say, comparing a mule to a horse. People believe, doubt or disbelieve according to their times, circumstances and what’s currently supported. When comes to religious belief I know enough to know I don’t know. But for many decades having thought myself a humanist it seems a bit on the fair side to say believing in a mystical spirit animal or omnipotent deity is a little less humanist than starting with the birth of a child, going on to young adult revelation and time of preaching followed by expressions of sacrifice and forgiveness leading to renewal or rebirth. I might not know what the universe means or if I play any role in it whatever, but I can appreciate the birth of a child and value judicious use of human qualities and energies. It’s with a meek heart I say Merry Christmas and hope it has meaning. Allowing our private minds to be tugged and swayed by thousands of petty interests is likely a recipe for becoming a half-baked nut bar.

In the popular world of the here and now (largely a fantasy of what should or might or could be) we’re little more than prey manipulated to react or spend for the benefit of some cause or concern that cares little for people beyond lip service.

Of which, I once told a critic if they expected my Vaseline’d lips to kiss their plump opinion they should expect a long wait. I don’t reason with noise.