I love Christmas. I love Christmas. I love it so so much. Initially when I was little I loved it for the presence. We were on a

tight budget for 364 days a year but on December 25th we lived like the

Rockefeller's. My mother, Sweet Laura, pulled out all the stops. She

remorgaged, she maxed out, she buried herself in debt to spoil us on that one

special day every year. There were other things to love about Christmas beyond the

cash and prizes. There was time, time with my overworked mom, time with my brother and

sister, and rarest of all time with my extended family.

Christmas Eve was packed wall to wall.

My brother and I would crisscross our way all over the metro Detroit area

visiting my mother's side of the family at Uncle Larry's house,

and then my father's family at my Uncle Jerry's house.

Both homes were overflowing with hors d'oeuvres, cookies, chocolates, pies, cakes,

and candies.

Fires blazed at both stops.

Stories were told and family members caught up on each other's lives over the previous year.

Those Christmas eaves are among the warmest memories I have.

And I haven't grown out of Christmas as an adult.

I start getting little butterflies in my chest are on Thanksgiving,

and over the ensuing weeks they multiply and spawn like Mogwai that have fallen into a public swimming pool.

For a solid month I stuffed myself with Christmas movies,

colorful sweaters, excessive decorations, holiday music,

and seasonal flavors.

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