My daughter Katrina was a bit over six months old on Christmas Eve, 1992. Her first Christmas Eve was spent in the company of family and friends, the first time that four generations were gathered in one room, at my mother's house. It was a long night of drinking Ouzo and smoking on the balcony and telling stories and opening gifts one by one every fifteen minutes or so...

Early in the night, Katrina ripped open one of her first presents and instantly stuck a big wad of wrapping paper in her mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it. Inside the package was a new pair of pajamas, pink and exceedingly fuzzy. She took it, the rest of the wrapping paper, and crawled over into daddy's lap where she rested for the evening, uninterested in any other gift, just happily cooing, occasionally ripping another piece of wrapping paper and feasting, and rubbing the pajamas against her cheek over, and over, and over...

I still have those pajamas. They don't exactly look pink anymore, but they're still exceedingly fuzzy.

Maggy {maggy@kia.net}

I glanced at my wrist watch in a hot December night in 1989; its calendar displayed the whiteness between the fading day and the upcoming morning.
It was somewhere between the number 24 and 25.
I had followed the seconds, waiting for them to tick on, take time away from me with bare hands.
I could hear the ocean singing in the background, reminding me there was life somewhere, reminding me somewhere someone should be contemplating the moon, reminding me someone was hugging somebody else and granting him or her best wishes.
My soul inflated on the thought of a hug, of a true smile, of a stroking hand, and everything seemed to be lighter for a moment.
But I was alone.
I had chosen to be alone.
I looked around the hotel room, the ashtray begging to be emptied, the sheets scattered and wrinkled over the worn out mattress. It was a sad scene.
But I wanted to be alone for it was necessary. Sometimes, you just have to be alone, drain yourself, let yourself be taken away by regreat, happiness, sadness, madness, senselessness. Sometimes, letting a sentiment die is the only way to feel alive.
I walked out of the room, facing a group of half-naked people smiling and giggling about presents and the meaning of Christmas. I never felt so pathetic in my entire life.
Everything seems so bogus when you have a broken heart. Other people's laughter can be the most provocative deed, the most averting experience.
I decided to walk unprotected, uneasy.
My bare feet touched the humid sand, and my only guide was the vivid red light at the tip of my cigarette.
I felt the soft waves breaking nearby, wetting my feet and legs, providing a sense of liberty, an unspoken, almost unthought, reality.
I sat on the beach, staring at the stars, thinking of her, of me, of the year which was about to end.
She was gone. There was no her anymore, there was no us. There was me, my cigarette, my watch, the stars and the ocean. That should, that had to suffice.
We had said goodbye a month ago. There were so many miles between us now, a whole continent of people, forests, seas and mountains.
I was alone, and I was scared.
But there was nothing I could do. We were apart, physically distant, oblivious to each other's realities.
That was the Christmas of 1989, and it all feels like it all just happened a couple of hours ago.

j.p.vicente {vicente@concentric.net}

I was not a religious child. My mother was raised by nuns and never recovered. My father is jewish -- nonpracticing. However, our best friends and neighbors, the Daniels were devout. Every christmas we would go to their house. Eating there, we always had to join hands as Jim said grace. Their tree was dark green, with deep red ribbons and popcorn. They also had storybooks the size of my thumb, the wizard of oz and such, terribly condensed and hanging from the tree. All year round they hung candles around the house, in pairs, the wick linking them uncut. They got divorced. After we had moved. And also after we had moved, the puppy that their daughter had gotten as a christmas gift was run over. Now, our good friends and neighbors also celebrate christmas. They hold a party. Their children, two boys, like to get a buzz off rum balls and play nintendo. These things happen.

Gershom {bazerman@uclink4.berkeley.edu}

My favorite holiday season was spent with a woman who bound my wrists with the cable of a Nintendo controller. If only I hadn't discovered what an idiot I can be... Hey, it was a long time ago, but I can still dream.

Blackdog {jaimy_o@hotmail.com}

I'll go p.c. and say happy year-end celebrations everyone!

I'm reminded of a certain underground classic that morphed into a cable channel series, which has been setting viewership records:

"It doesn't matter if your Christian or Jewish or Hindu. Christmas is about one thing..."

"Yeah, ham."

"No not ham, you fat fuck!"

"Fuck you!"

"It's about presents."

"Yeah."

"Hey man, if you're Jewish you get presents for eight days!"

"Woah, count me in!"

matt {conman@gladstone.uoregon.edu}

One of my most memorable holidays was the first Christmas I lived in San Francisco. I was so, so poor that year, living in a dump of a flat with no heat. I couldn't afford "real" presents - and we've always been the utilitarian, materialistic sort, so art and poems just don't make it as gifts. I was so ashamed, I didn't want to face them on Christmas day, but since we only lived 45 minutes apart, I quickly ran out of excuses.

I opted to work that day rather than face an empty flat - my roommates had all headed to various parts of the globe for the week. Business was slow, I mean, who the hell goes to see a dominatrix on Christmas morning? So, our boss took us out to brunch and we spent the afternoon watching cheap bondage flicks. Eventually, though, I had to face the family and go over for Christmas dinner.

Not to come totally empty handed, I brought them stuff I'd handmade over the last couple months. I hoped they remembered the saying about it being the thought that counts in gift giving. It was a really tough day to get through. Dinner was lovely - the annual standing rib roast. And they got me wonderful stuff for presents. I felt even more ashamed at being so poor - I'd always managed my money well, and living hand to mouth was a real shock for me.

I begged off early, and met up with friends at a now-defunct club and drowned my self-loathing in loud music and a white russian. I ended that "Merry Christmas" by making out with a stranger in the corner of the club, and promising to meet up with him the next night.

I never want another holiday like that one.

michelle {michelle@dragonflypond.com}

christmas 1984.
we got our first computer: apple IIe because that's what they were using in the schools. the reason for getting the computer was so that my brothers, 16 and 13 at the time, could write papers and such. but the only thing i ever remember doing is playing games, and there are several pictures from that christmas of the three of us sitting around the computer screen, rapt. donkey kong was a big deal back then. so was mario bros.

i can't believe it's been thirteen years. and look at how we can measure our progress. castle wolfenstein to diablo.

joanna {joanna@flabjab.com}

best experience... well... it would have to have been the december sometime in the mid-seventies (i was too young to remember the exact year), the one i spent back in new jersey with the grandparents and rest of my family. that's when the whole holiday still had the drugged fuzzyness it used to hold for me as a kid.

the worst... probably last year when i got tired of my stepmother's complaining, picked up my presents and left the house in the middle of christmas dinner. http://www.fray.com/drugs/home/post/index.html (yeah, it really did turn out as bad as i expected).

but this year i know it will be different. my sister had a kid (and i'm an uncle. now THAT'S scary!). everyone seems much happier than they were last year and i have a new job to be thankful for.

sshhhhh... hear that? it's the magic. i think, at least for me, it's starting to return.

greg stramback {vector@value.net}