Dear Santa,
Today marks my 52nd Christmas—fifty-two years of chaos, laughter, pain, and, for the most part, survival. You start to understand things a bit differently when you’ve been around the block this many times. You realize that Christmas isn’t about the glossy paper and the shiny bows. It’s not about the mountain of overpriced gifts or the dreaded credit card bills that haunt you well into the new year. No, it’s something much deeper than all of that—something consumer-driven nonsense could never touch. But I digress.
After fifty-two Christmases, the mind of a man begins to remember strange details. I can still recall my third Christmas like it was yesterday. My grandfather—blessed with a belly full of whiskey and a heart full of love—dressed up as Santa, fake beard and all, and snuck into our house to leave my very first bicycle under the tree. It had training wheels, of course, and those wheels felt like the reins of some wild beast about to throw me into the sidewalk. But that bike? That damned bike would change everything. The training wheels weren’t just there for safety—they were the start of a wild ride, a metaphor I’m still unpacking.
But I’m not here to talk about bikes, or the gifts, or even the wrapping paper. Christmas is not about what we give or receive—it never was. Sure, we all enjoy tearing into those overpriced presents, pretending we need them. But when the paper’s shredded and the ribbon’s untied, what really matters? It’s the people. The ones who matter most. The ones you rely on when the world feels like it’s going to eat you alive. Christmas is about looking around and realizing that those faces—the ones you’ve fought with, laughed with, maybe even cried with—are the real gift.
The truth is, Christmas is about connection. It’s about showing people that they matter. It’s not about stressing over the perfect present. Hell, most of us can’t even remember what we got last year. What stays with us is the time spent together—the jokes, the stories, the meals shared around the table, like we’re still the same ragtag group of misfits we were when we first learned to spell our names. And those laughs—don’t even get me started on the laughs. Christmas, in its truest form, is about raw, unfiltered joy shared with the ones you love.
And as I reflect on this holiday, sitting here puffing something stronger than hot cocoa, I want to send my own message. To everyone who’s wronged me over the year: You know who you are. We might not be on the same page yet, but in the spirit of the season, I wish you the best. Christmas—or whatever holiday you’re celebrating—take a moment to appreciate what you have. Life’s too short to hold grudges, no matter how much some people try to make it happen.
So, from the bottom of my scarred but still beating heart, Merry Christmas, Grants Pass. Merry Christmas to all who’ve shared this chaotic, beautiful ride with me. Let’s raise a glass, spread some joy, and remember that, in the end, that’s what really matters.
