It is Christmas Eve, time to ponder some of life's timeless questions. Such as where did all the extension cords go?
During most of the year, extension cords are abundant. You walk into your basement or the electrical section of a hardware store and there are so many extension cords slinking around it looks like a snake scene in an "Indiana Jones" movie.
But on Christmas Eve, when you need a couple of cords to light those historically correct candles that everybody else on the block already has put in their windows, all the extension cords have gone into hiding.
Maybe they go to the same place where all the white Christmas tree bulbs hide. Early this December there were more white bulbs than there were politicians talking about middle class tax cuts. But if past seasons are any indication, once the big day nears, there is a very good chance the white light at the top of the tree will burn out. And the angel, star, or dinosaur that is supposed to send the light of hope showering down on your living room, suddenly seems dimmer than baseball's Bud Selig. But on Christmas Eve the only bulbs available to light the spot at the pinnacle of the tree are dark green. I slip one of the dim bulbs in, and tell my wife, it is a new, muted Christmas tree look.
Christmas Eve often finds me sipping eggnog, staring at the heavens and asking myself "Why didn't you buy more batteries?"
In recent years I have worked my way through the alphabet of batteries, A, AA, C and D. I have bought the born-again batteries, the ones that come back to life after spending the night getting juiced at an electrical outlet. I have bought those little pancake batteries with virtually impossible-to-read identifying marks on their backsides. These batteries slip into cameras, watches, calculators and make them work. But only if you have correctly read their backsides.
No matter their shape, size or electrical persuasion, the batteries I have bought have rarely been sufficient for the day. Making a "battery run" on Christmas Eve has become part of my holiday shopping tradition.
Another question I have to come to grips with on Christmas Eve, especially before the eggnog kicks in, is where did I hide the presents?
One of the joys of fatherhood is out-foxing your kids. In recent years I thought I had successfully hidden Christmas presents from my kids by using the old black plastic bag ruse. It worked this way: Late at night when the kids were in bed, I would stuff unwrapped presents in black plastic bags, seal them, then stick them in a basement closet where I kept some tools as well as a few other plastic bags filled with junk.
I was feeling smug until a few weeks ago when the 13-year-old asked me if I was going to hide the gifts for his 9-year-old brother "in the basement like you did last year." This exchange reminded me that one of the more humiliating moments in a dad's life comes when he discovers his kids have outsmarted him.
Which gets me around to another question I wrestle with on Christmas Eve, how to answer inquiries from a borderline believer about the existence of Santa Claus. I have tried the usual parental ploys. I have tossed the question back to the kid, asking him what he believes. Then I have changed the subject. But lately I have been thinking about this question on a different level. Namely, do I believe in the existence of seemingly magical acts of goodness?
While acknowledging that random evil acts are part of the world, I prefer on Christmas Eve to think about life's better times. To dwell on the moments, big and small, when the benign winds of fate have saved me from sorrow. Such as the time I drove 30 miles on Eastern Shore back roads with my wallet sitting on the car's back bumper, and the wallet didn't fall off.
Or the time a strike-out prone Little Leaguer scattered dark clouds of doubt with a swing of the bat. The home run ball and the kid's confidence went soaring.
Or the time when one of my kids darted out in a city street, and just missed, by a fraction of a second, getting hit by a speeding car.
I don't care whether these seemingly magical acts happen in the sunshine of May or the cold nights of December. I don't care whether the personage responsible is called Lady Lucky, Seamus The Famous Leprechaun, or Santa Claus. I simply know they exist.