University of Virginia Library

'O Tannenbaum, O Napalm Bomb...'

By JEFF RUGGLES

Hate to contradict you but

"I hear that in many places something has happened to
Christmas; that it is changing from a time of merriment and
carefree gaiety to a holiday which is filled with tedium; that
many people dread the day and the obligation to give Christmas
presents is a nightmare to weary, bored souls; that the children of
enlightened parents no longer believe in Santa Claus; that all in
all, the effort to be happy and have pleasure makes many honest
hearts grow dark with despair instead of beaming with good will
and cheerfulness."

Julia Peterkin pauses to catch her breath, and sips tea to help
her recall. Under her window, across the street, a mechanical
Santa doll stands in a store window– a typical pop,
characterization, red-and-white costume, rosy cheeks, big smile.
An electric motor in his belly rocks his upper torso back and
forth, as if the cardboard Claus were alive and ho ho-ing.

"Here, where time moves slowly and few changes come in, we
remain faithful to the old-fashioned ways which were a part of
our childhood and of the childhood of those who were here
before us, and we delight in defending them against anything
which tends to destroy them or to lessen their brightness."

In reality this droll laughing figurine is an advertising gadget.
The shoppers barely notice him. He's part of the holiday
atmosphere, and taken for
granted. In this window are
some watches and cheap
jewelry, but they could be
cameras, shirts, or shoes.

Surely some of the people
realize how kitsch the image
is–even if they are mostly
bourgeois. A former Christian
saint (I doubt he's claimed
anymore), now no more than a
hawker of goods, and a
monotonous one at that: How
soon before the Child plays
with G.I. Joe on the Saturday
morning kid shows?

"Our Christmas
preparations begin as soon as
Thanksgiving is over, when the
Christmas cakes are baked and
put away to ripen, with oiled
paper wrapped carefully
around them to hold the
delicious flavor of the
scupermong wine which has
been carefully poured all over
their dark brown crusts."

The week before Thansgiving the first shopping centers had
their slogans and lights up. Perennial reissues of 2nd and 3rd rate
records clutter what we hear on the radio, and TV ads gleam with
symbols of Christmas, perverted from their religious and cultural
meanings into commercial trappings. Scrooge loses again and
again, but each time it's closer, because the Ghost of Christmas
Future is getting sick of being the spokesman for the GNP. Pro
football enters its most violent stage, prepared to reach into
unnumbered homes with its low karma broadcasts. Only
occasionally, someone we can admire: the Grinch.

"In the kitchen, the cook moves about with much dignity and
importance among her pots and pans and measuring-cups and
scales, pausing now and then to ponder over some old recipe
stored away in her mind or to boast of how much better she can
cook out of her head than most people can cook out of books."

Ah, Julia, you speak to us from the past. Women know better
today. The dignity and importance of the kitchen are at the
pleasure of the master of the house. Presently we're developing a

multiple-master system for the
household– feasting will
probably survive the change.

She sips the last of her tea,
and calls for her carriage.
"These dark rumors make me
thank the kind fate which
placed me in a home which is
removed from the beaten track
of that thing which, for want
of a better name, we call
progress."

(As they erected the
national Christmas tree in its
customary site, the band
serenaded. "O Tannenbaum, o
napalm bomb...")