During the yuletide season my wife and daughters call me "Scrooge." I am subjected to this verbal abuse because they go completely overbroad in their preparations for Christmas and I don't hesitate to point this out to them.
Last year, for instance, our older daughter went so far as to hire a professional interior decorator to deck her halls. He put green velvet bows, gold cherubs, and sunbursts all over the place, and when he got through I told our daughter that her home had all the warmth of a hotel lobby. Not only did she call me Scrooge, she informed me crisply that with an outspoken attitude like that, I'd certainly never win any popularity contests. (My wife claims Eloise and I are a lot alike, but I don't think of myself as being that caustic.)
Our younger daughter chose a pink color scheme for her Christmas décor. Everything had to be pink—presents, lights, wreaths—even her tree.
I warned her that pink Christmas trees were a crime against nature and should be avoided at all costs, but she dragged her tree onto the carport and sprayed the tree, a large portion of her house, and the fender of her station wagon a rather startling shade of pink. I reminded her that I had alerted her to the dangers of tampering with the natural order of things; she didn't speak to me for several days after that—not even to call me Scrooge.
Personally, I think a nice little tree with strings of popcorn and cranberries should be enough for anyone, but our tree always looks as if it belongs in Rockefeller Plaza. I told my wife she spent enough on the ornaments alone to feed a needy family for a month. She retorted testily that she bought them at the church bazaar and the money went to a mission that feeds needy families. (Frankly, I was sorry I had brought up the subject.)
However, my wife doesn't stop with a fancy tree. No, she festoons our entire house from top to bottom with holiday finery. I try to be stoic about this, but when she placed a large wreath of gilded dried stuff of over our bed, I said it had to go. I couldn't sleep with those okra spikes pointing down at me like lethal missiles sighted on a target. The next day, in a sulk, she hung it on the front door. When it fell on the mail carrier's foot, I was thankful that his foot was ground zero, not my bald spot.
Decorating the house is only a minor item on my wife's Christmas activity agenda. Her top priority is stockpiling presents. By early December our storeroom looks like a Wal-Mart warehouse.
I remarked that when I was a boy, I was overjoyed to get apples, oranges, and nuts in my stocking. She just said, "Nuts!" and went on inventorying her merchandise with the efficiency of an army supply sergeant.
The gifts to our grandchildren are grouped into three categories—teenagers, intermediates, and toddlers. The children in each group receive identical presents because the slightest difference can have catastrophic results.
Last year the toddlers were sitting on the floor looking like the Dionne quintuplets in identical red and white warm-up suits, spinning identical plastic-domed tops
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