Do you hear what I hear? Do you see what I see?
Moreoever, do you smell what I smell? Do you taste what I taste?
And do you feel what I feel?
Yes, I feel — and loathe — the bone-rattling cold. But that’s hardly the titillation to which I am referring. Not even close, although the chill of winter and the reason for my sensory stimulation go hand in hand.
Merry Christmas!
How often do we use the word “merry” in speech? Other than from about Dec. 5 on, I’m guesstimating about never.
Is anybody a “jolly” old soul these days? Does anyone “don” apparel, gay or otherwise?
Do you say what I say?

The duality — the seeming conflict of good versus opulent — is enough to steer many a sleigh away from the joy of the yuletide. The “so you thought we couldn’t do more than last year?” all-out attack of commercialism overwhelms even the hardiest of souls.
It’s to the point even the catchphrase “the reason for the season” can sound like a contrived jingle.
And yet, somehow, the two are one.
Is the secular Christmas so much, the cynic asks, that it overshadows the spiritual Christmas? Does the hustle and bustle of gifting and receiving leave us forgetful of the greatest gift?
Maybe you hear differently than I. Maybe your vision is a blurred distant relative of mine.
To me, you see, all things Christmas are, well, Christmas.

The aroma of cookies or turkey or peanut brittle or candied yams or cookies or other seasonal favorites in the oven.
The infectious laughter of children.
That unmistakable, unexplainable, inimitable feeling in your stomach — surely it feels the way that wavy, colorful Christmas candy looks — as you watch Mom opening what you have deemed the definitively perfect gift.
Cringing at the thought of what never-to-be-worn sweater Grandma bought us this year.
Odd Uncle Joe and the eggnog he drinks while standing alone in the corner.
Hugs all around. Some longer lasting and given with more heart than others.
Hoping to steal a kiss beneath the mistletoe.
Cheeks a stinging shade of cherry red after only a few minutes of outdoor play.
Zero anger when a cousin long unseen smacks you upside the head with an icy snowball.

Eleven p.m. church services that end with a sanctuary illuminated only by candlelight and voices in a perfectly united rendition of “Silent Night.”
Some assembly required.
Some Jack Daniels required.
The hollowness that aches inside when, as at all family gatherings and special events, lost loved ones are missed the most.
Gathering around an old, out-of-tune piano, never minding when Aunt Susan plays the wrong notes and never missing a beat when the words to carols are forgotten.
The brightly colored ribbons and bows atop brightly colored wrapping paper.
Remembering the greatest anticipation of them all: that of a child on Christmas Eve.
Rushing off to bed at six-thirty in an effort to expedite Santa’s arrival.

I will sneak outside alone sometime around midnight to gather in the coming of Christmas Day.
I will look to the sky hoping to catch a glimpse of a fat man in a red suit, pulled across the darkened curtain by eight tiny, magical reindeer. I will hope, when I do not see him, he is visiting the home of some child far, far less fortunate than mine.
At the same time, I will look for the heaven’s brightest star. I will assure myself it is the same one that led shepherds and kings alike across a barren land and to a place, alongside animals, at the foot of a cradle.
In my quest for Santa, you see, I once again will be drawn to — yes — the reason for the season. And if I’m getting there, who cares which road paved my way?
Forever I will rejoice in the two sides of Christmas.
Forever I will be merry.
 

May the good Lord be with you down every road you roam
and may sunshine and happiness surround you when you’re far from home.
And may you grow to be proud dignified and true
and do onto others as you’d have done to you.
Be courageous and be brave
and in my heart you’ll always stay forever young.

“Jami …”
Time had arrived, I opined, for the obligatory father-daughter talk. Somehow, someway, I mustered all the courage that was within me and pulled on my George Banks mask.
You remember George Banks, don’t you? The character Steve Martin so ably portrayed in the tender 1991 comedy “Father of the Bride”?
Today, you see, I am the father of the bride.
Pardon me while I clear my throat and silence the Newspaper No-No alarm going off in my brain. I am in the act of committing an unforgivable sin.
I can hear Ransom Hancock, one of my earliest mentors in this business, advising me in that stern fashion of his. Never, he told me, print a story about a wedding that has not happened before the presses run.
“What if the bride or groom gets killed in a car wreck on the way?” he asked in a shock-value warning. “What if one of them backs out?”
Forgive me, Ransom. This is one lesson I’m tossing out the window. Today and today only.

Today is actually Thursday, not Saturday as it reads on the front of this newspaper. And today is not the day I am walking down the center aisle of First United Methodist Church in Claremore.
Today, you see, I am nobody’s father-in-law. I have no son-in-law.
Today I can celebrate.
When Saturday becomes “today,” my world will change. Forever.
Forever. What a staggering, mind-boggling word.
Is anything forever? In particular, can any wedding of the 21st century be a forever thing?
The odds for survival of any marriage made today are not good. Improving, if one trusts the New York Times, but not good.
The Times, citing numbers from the U.S. Census Bureau, and the National Center for Health Statistics, suggest the divorce rate for marriages taking place now is 40 percent. That’s down from 43 percent in 2000 and 50 percent in 2002.

May good fortune be with you
may your guiding light be strong.
build a stairway to heaven with a prince or a vagabond.
And may you never love in vain
and in my heart you will remain
forever young.

They have a built-in edge, I tried to tell her, even in a world where four in 10 marriages is put asunder. The odds, I assured her, were much greater in their favor because they are children of forever marriages.
Children of children of forever marriages.
So why, armed with such info, do I worry? Why do I fret her becoming Mrs. Somebody rather than just my — forever young — little girl?
The fact cannot be denied this girl is a woman now. She has been, it seems, for quite some time.
Yes, those childhood visions flash across my mental big screen. Dance recitals gave way to junior high, which gave way to orthodontics, which gave way to cheerleading, sweet 16, dates with the man today she will marry, graduation, college and — gasp! — betrothal.
She is a woman by any account.
So why can I not erase that most vivid of memory: a 14-year-old sitting behind a steering wheel she could barely over, supposedly learning to drive while doing her best not to horrify her father-turned-teacher?
Why, every time I look upon her, do I see a young child?

She has given us a great gift, her mother and me. Since May, she again has taken up residency beneath our roof.
The situation has been more akin to having a houseguest than hosting a daughter. She comes and goes as she pleases. No quarter has been asked or afforded.
But her being ever present has given us a chance, once again, to be bound tightly together. She has all but retethered the umbilical cord to her mother during the months leading up to today.
Today, you see, in many ways, we are losing not only a daughter; we are losing a dear friend.
“Losing her,” of course, is not the proper choice of words. Rather, we are changing the relationship we have shared with her.

Proscratination being one of my worthier traits, the seemingly mandatory time for the seemingly mandatory conversation did not come until only days remained in the countdown.
To say it did not go as planned would be inaccurate. Those who know me best insist very little in my world goes as planned because very little truly is planned.
My credo: Leap twice before you look.
So there we sat in her room as father and daughter. As consultant and questioner. As friends.
No more had I spoken her name than the emotions began to run wild within me.
“Jeez, Dad,” she monotoned. “It’s a good thing I’m stoic enough for the both of us.”
I stammered out some words about marriage being a great compromise and some advice about avoiding, at all costs, grudges. Whether or not my message was clear, I have no idea.
She got it, though. That’s the great thing about her.
While forever I may see her as forever young, in truth she probably is wiser than her parents.
Her new husband is one lucky guy.

And when you finally fly away
I’ll be hoping that I’ve served you well
for all the wisdom of a lifetime no one can ever tell.
But whatever road you choose
I’m right behind you
win or lose.
—“Forever Young” by Rod Stewart