I’m not sure why I did it. I was the kid who always knew what he was getting because I knew to ask specifically. Once the Sears Wish Book arrived in August, I would go about circling what exactly I wanted. I didn’t ask for a stereo. I asked for the stereo on page 235, Item K, with catalog number C430-1114. There was no mistake. Sure, it may have lacked the poetry and magic of Santa Claus but it was absent the potential disappointment as well.

Nonetheless, once the presents were under the tree, I was shaking and sifting with the best of them. I could usually pinpoint with great accuracy a number of the gifts for both myself and my sisters. My parents got so fed up that one year they decided to use a coded numbering system. Of course, once the presents were under the tree I had cracked the code in about 2 minutes. It helped that my older sister had asked for a bulletin board. That was pretty easy to spot and then it was all down hill after that.

Only once did they actually manage to surprise me. The year was 1986 or 1987. I wanted a CD player so badly yet, by the time Christmas morning had arrived, it wasn’t there. I couldn’t believe it. When my parents came back from the office conference room where they wrapped their gifts, I helped carry the loot from the car to the tree, inspecting every item. No luck. I checked every day. Nothing. Christmas morning there were no new boxes. Dismay was at hand.

Then, miraculously, as my father was handing out gifts, he handed one to me that wasn’t mine. It had my mom’s name on it. It was, of course, the coveted CD player. I had never thought to look at packages that were addressed to my parents. I guess it was my lack of interest in thing like bathrobes and necklaces. The camouflage worked like a charm. It turns out I had even carried the CD player into the house and placed it under the tree while never suspecting a thing. It was genius and I’ve never been more proud of my parents than I was at that moment.

I should confess that the snooping was bound to start before presents were wrapped and under the tree. Starting maybe in October, an extra sojourn into my parents’ bedroom closet to gaze at the high wire racks was always in order. I wasn’t tall enough to reach anything but once in a while you could make out the edge of a remote control car or some other prize. I’m not especially proud of myself but I’ve always been the curious sort. I was certain never to spoil another’s surprise and always acted appropriately appreciative and dazzled on the big day.

Now, 25 years later and I’m spending my first Christmas where I won’t be visiting my parents. It’s quite strange for a number of reasons. One of the most surprising is that the FedEx and UPS trucks have been making regular stops at my door; delivering boxes from Amazon to Tampa Bay. I’ve been alone in my house for countless hours with numerous gifts addressed to me. Some are sitting unwrapped inside plain brown boxes just a few feet away and I’ve not looked at one.

I’m dying to know what’s inside them yet I find it so satisfying to not look. What happened? What changes? Is it maturity? Is it appreciation of exactly what a surprise can be? Is it that since there is no one to catch me, snooping has lost its inherent thrill? I hope it’s not the last one. That seems like perhaps some sort of social or psychological problem I’m not prepared to address right now.

Whatever the reason, I’m ready and waiting. I’m counting down the days until Christmas and seeing what Santa brought. OK, maybe I’ll just go have one little shake first.

This wasn’t a wet, October snow, but the real thing and perfect day to buy a Christmas tree.

There I am. 34 years old and on my first visit to a Christmas tree lot.

I know many of you might not believe that, but it’s true. The year before I was born, my parents’ Christmas tree caught on fire while out by the curb waiting to be hauled away by the garbage men. It went up quick, like a, well, Christmas tree. This caused sufficient alarm in my mother as to decree the era of artificial trees had begun.

The tree they purchased for my first Christmas was the same tree we would use until I moved away and went to college. My first year out of the dorms there I bought a fake tree at a great price and used it for the last 14 years. For $35 it looked wonderful and I loved it. This year is different.

Like many people, Abby is insistent on a real tree so I was game to give it a go. I gave away my tree to some people at my yard sale in Nashville in August and haven’t looked back yet. So far, the branches are falling nicely and the aroma is divine. Far nicer than any sprays or candle.

While we’re talking about trees, what’s the deal with trying to call them “holiday trees”?

I get the idea of cities, governments, schools, etc., avoiding religious affiliation by using things like “Happy Holidays” and giving kids 2 weeks off for “Winter Break.” That is perfectly acceptable and what they should be doing. How can you complain about that? But if you cut down a pine tree, stick lights, ornaments, and garland on it – it’s a Christmas tree. Period. Is there a tree for Kwanzaa? Nope. Ramadan? Nope. Maybe Chanukah? Not hardly. Only Christmas. This particular decoration has but the one affiliation and to fail to identify it as such is a joke.

I may not be a Christian but I know a Christmas tree when I see it. Just as I’m pretty sure my Jewish friends know their menorah isn’t really a “Holiday Candelabra.”