An Old Coot's Homage To Tradition

There is a look one's children cultivate that marks the delicate transition from respected parent to aging dolt.

I reached that stage many years ago when the lads, at a very tender age, anxiously reached into their Christmas stockings, felt around a bit and then looked up in my general direction as if to say: "Again?!?!? Again!?!? Sheeesh, what a complete dolt."

For while the years may pass and the holidays may possess their own unique character, one thing remains a certainty with the arrival of each new Christmas.

Yes, this morning, in the long-standing Yuletide tradition of our household, will mark the inclusion once more of the ever-popular Christmas Navel orange in everyone's stocking.

It's a special moment, to be sure.

Call me a sentimental old coot, and you're probably right, but the presence of the orange in the stocking has been a part of the Christmas experience as long as I can remember.

Depression Era

There are probably many reasons the orange has become part of the holiday tradition.

But I suspect, at least in my family's case, being the product of Depression Era parents, the orange came to express a symbolic appreciation for food during this nation's worst economic crisis.

It is a humble gift, the orange, a reminder of a simpler time perhaps before Christmas became so preoccupied with the Gross National Product, before the relentless Christmas shopping season began shortly after the Fourth of July.

And yes, for just a fleeting moment, the orange takes me back to a childhood Christmas so many, many years ago when a little boy could barely sleep in anticipation of what the morning would bring.

Odd what a modest piece of citrus can do for the memory, the spirit, the heart.

So it only seemed natural when I became a parent myself I would continue the family history of the orange in the stocking. It appealed to my sense of tradition. I liked the whimsy of it. It was a generational link.

I was a complete dolt.

Stocking Stuffer

"What's this?" Zeus the Elder asked on a long ago Christmas morning, as he yanked his orange out of the stocking.

"It's an orange," I responded, a little worried about the public school education he was getting.

"Why is it in my stocking?"

"Well, the brand new Corvette wouldn't fit. Actually, the orange is part of a family tradition."

"That's stupid," Sky King the Elder sighed, rolling his eyes, which then only encouraged his brother, Plato the Younger, to roll his eyes.

So it has gone over years. Each Christmas morning the boys would awaken, greet us with some mumbling along the lines of "Gort snop blagger frumpwad," only to reach into the stocking, discover their orange and observe: "This is stupid."

Tradition. It's touching is what it is.

As we decorated the house for the holidays, the Poinsettia of the Peloponnesus sighed how lovely it would be if someday when the boys had children of their own that they, too, would include an orange in the Christmas stocking.

Yes, it would be nice, especially when their own children would ponder the orange and conclude: "That's stupid."

Ah, tradition! So touching.