The Christmas Squint
written by: Kat Merrigan
Some may read the title of this piece and wonder if it’s a typo. Surely it should read Christmas magic, sparkle, or twinkle, not a Christmas squint. Allow me to explain.
My formative Christmases were set against a backdrop of the 1970s. That’s a fancy way of saying I was a child of the seventies, a teen of the eighties, and you get the point. As the youngest of four siblings, I was the last to learn the truth about Santa. Though I should have suspected something when we used to leave cookies and beer out for him. I remember the year before I learned the truth, I commented how I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to give Santa alcohol when he had all that sledding around the world to do. My parents assured me he’d be fine. Rudolph and the boys did most of the work anyway.
I dutifully put out the cookies and beer and left him a letter. The next morning, when I came downstairs, I found cookie crumbs on the plate and the glass of beer empty. But what warmed my little heart most was that Santa had answered my note! I read it over and over. I was so excited as I proudly declared to my dad, “Daddy, Santa has the same handwriting as you!” My brother, who was four years older and a man of the world, looked over at me and simply shook his head. As a wisecrack was forming on his lips, our mom shot him a look that all mothers have, which can instantly render their child speechless. My dad just smiled and said, “Oh yeah. You think so?”
Years later, as we sat around the living room reminiscing about Christmases past, my brother said he couldn’t believe I didn’t put it together sooner. The beer, the handwriting, even the cookies had to be Dad’s favorite. I shrugged my shoulders, and we all enjoyed a good laugh. I guess I wanted to hold onto the magic just a little bit longer.
One thing that was no laughing matter in our home was filming us as we came down the stairs to open our Christmas presents nestled beneath the tree. As I’ve mentioned, there were four of us, so Mom usually came down last, escorting the littlest child. As soon as my brother could walk, he ran.
I shared a bedroom with my sisters. He’d come barreling through our door at the crack of dawn. He’d brag about how he almost made it all the way downstairs on Christmas Eve to sneak a peek at our bounty. But Dad had bionic hearing and sent him racing back to bed under threat of grievous gift interruptus. This roughly translated to if he kept bothering Dad, who was wrapping last-minute gifts at the kitchen table while watching the Yule Log, his Christmas haul would suffer.
But now it was morning, so we all had to get up whether we were ready or not. We could keep him occupied for about half an hour. Then he’d be posted at the top of the stairs like a thoroughbred at the gate waiting for the starting pistol to fire. The signal to go was when Dad had set up and tested his 8 mm home movie camera, complete with a light accessory.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with the light I’m referring to, I can only describe it as a three-million-watt bulb with blinding powers akin to peering directly into the sun on a summer’s day. Remember, the seventies were pre-camcorders and decades before cell phones. It was the wild, wild west in filming. If you didn’t use the light, the footage looked as if it were ghosts captured in a haunted house, all weird, blobby shapes, and movements. A reunion, perhaps of Jacob Marley and other tortured souls wandering about Dickensian streets, dragging their chains in the snow. When you did use the light, you could render someone temporarily sightless. I did mention we were walking down a full flight of stairs, didn’t I?
Poor Dad did his best to minimize the retinal burn. He wouldn’t point the light bulb directly at us. He aimed it toward the ceiling in the hope of saving his family from harm. The only problem was our ceiling was bright white. Bright light hits the bright white ceiling and bounces off our eyeballs. Look away! Stare at the pretty tree. No use. Dad, a tinsel aficionado, has heavily adorned each branch as we blissfully slumbered. The shimmering, silver strips meant to resemble delicate icicles now mock us with their sparkle and eye-piercing shine.
I was more than a little nervous the first year I had to walk down the stairs without holding Mom’s hand. I believe I was in high school at the time.
Happy to report none of us ever experienced any significant injury. Though there were times when I believed my presents were wrapped in polka-dotted paper. I found out later on they were not. Residual spots before our eyes became a staple of the holiday, as did the Christmas squint. I suppose it was an instinctual response to the harsh glare coming from nearly every conceivable direction, but in every movie, every year, every one of us is squinting as we walk down the stairs.
Dad was sensitive to our plight. He turned the sun off occasionally, perhaps because the light bulb generated enough heat to warm the entire living room, and its awesome power might set the tree ablaze. Whatever the reason, we were grateful for the respites.
Years later, as we entered the video age, we would mention how much we missed that big, bright ball. It always made us feel as if the Star of Bethlehem had descended into our very home. Dad was surprised we missed it so much, given all the complaints we had every year he used it. But that’s the thing about families and traditions. Sometimes it’s the silly things, the quirky bits, the near-fatal-injury-inducing stuff that makes for the best memories.
I still love Christmas. The sounds, the smells, the sights, having sight. It’s the most wonderful time of the year. But what I wouldn’t give to walk down those stairs just one more time, squinting all the way.
- The Christmas Squint - December 26, 2025
