I Saw Santa ...

This was supposed to be an article called "The Year in Review." In my draft, I revisited those things that happened in Ohio, good and bad, that I felt warranted reflection. For the most part, those things were bad. I wrote with disgust and anger about the riots in Cincinnati. I wondered at the future of Ohio's post-secondary schools as they cut budgets, people and programs at the same time they raise tuition and other fees. I pondered the plight of our entire school system budgeting process. I poked not-so-good-natured fun at the people who fry themselves (did you know that Ohio ranks first in the nation in artificial tanning?). Actually, all the news wasn't bad. But my take on it was. While I marveled at the mastodon skull found in Salem, I wondered how many more were crushed in the name of "progress" as new strip centers pop up on our dwindling farmlands. I wrote with pleasure that "With God All Things Are Possible" is still our official state motto, but I was grumpy that it took a lengthy court battle to keep it. In short, I wrote myself into a very un-cheery mood. Then I had a vision. Like Ebenezer Scrooge, almost. On December 15, in the middle of Lake Erie, I saw something I couldn't ignore.

I saw Santa on a Jet Ski.

It was a sign. It had to be a sign (yes, from above) that it's time to lighten up. It's time to put the year, the holidays, and all associated pressure, into perspective. And it's time to let it pass.

Before this epiphany, I couldn't get into the Christmas spirit. Whatever the reasons--the new war, the old pressure from relatives, lack of snow, less money and more to buy--the ho-ho-holly-jolliness that comes to me every year, as predictably as post-Christmas bills, hadn't come calling on time. Then it came humming. That whirling apparition on the choppy waters got my attention. Somebody, somewhere, was trying to tell me something. Santa, in full red suit, hat and black boots, just doesn't cruise by the beach at Edgewater Park on Jet Ski for no reason.

Or does he?

Whatever.

This year John Grisham wrote not about lawyers, but about something perhaps more deserving of the butt-end of our jokes: the commercialization of Christmas. In Skipping Christmas, Grisham gave us a family fed up with what I call "the Christmas crap." The long list of must-do, must-go, must-buy items.

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