Not because of the commercialism. Hell, with my VCR and my laser disk player and my stereo sound system and car and you name it, I’m just as much a consumer as anyone else. And I didn’t hate the hypocrisy of it, at least not in the later years, because I understood it. I didn’t hate the religious overtones, and I’m not a religious man; I didn’t hate the idiotic television specials or the hype or the gathering of the family. I hated Christmas because every Christmas after my fifth year, I saw her. Let me tell you about her, really briefly; it’ll make the rest of it all make sense. Well, at least I hope it will. * * * When I was five, I went travelling with my parents. We had three weeks at Christmas—and three weeks, at least to a five year old, are forever. My dad didn’t like snow much, and he especially didn’t like to shovel it, so when we chose a place to travel, we went south. Fifty years ago and more, South America wasn’t a really civilized place; hell, in many places it’s pretty primitive now.
