Moor or Less: Christmas cards? Ho, ho, no

My wife watches as I toss the pile of mail onto the counter. It’s a thick pile and there surely will be more Christmas cards in it.

She shudders as she picks out a couple of the envelopes.

“It’s too close to Christmas now to send cards back to them,” she moans.

When we receive a card — whether from a longtime friend or a casual acquaintance — we quickly send one back to them.

We get a card. We send a card. That’s how we roll these days.

OK, that’s not quite right. That’s how my wife rolls — or responds. I’ve pretty much out of the Christmas card business.

I don’t feel that bad about my wife writing them. This time of year, she only has to do the Christmas shopping for everyone … make the Christmas cookies and other goodies … decorate the house … cook the holiday meals … wrap the gifts … organize the neighborhood’s holiday get-together … check on the welfare of others …

…. you get the idea. She does pretty much everything. I do carry our artificial Christmas tree — Fake Fred II — up from the basement and ask our daughter to help me pick out a gift for my wife. But that’s about it.

Scrooge could be my middle name through most of December. The crass commercialism of the holiday puts me off.

I don’t really get into the Christmas spirit until I watch, “It’s a Wonderful Life” on Christmas Eve. Then I feel bad that I haven’t done a little more to help my wife and also that I haven’t spread a goodly amount of good cheer.

But writing Christmas cards? Naaa. I’m not feeling it.

Yeah, I used to help my wife with them — especially if the senders were associated more with me than with her. But my contributions slowly trickled down to nothing over the last couple of years. I’m not totally sure why —partly because I’m just lazy and maybe a little because I worry about people feeling obligated to send me a card in return.

I do admire and appreciate those who do send out cards. If you sent us one this holiday season, I answered it with a little prayer for you. And no, I didn’t pray that you quit sending us one next year. (OK, maybe that’s the case with my buddy Mark who pens an overly long Christmas letter that I edit with a red pencil.)

My wife soldiers on with the tradition.

We start getting cards right after Thanksgiving from my her friends and family over in Scotland. They must think that mail to America comes over on a banana boat as early as they send them out. With some of her all-but-forgotten cousins, their cards seem to serve as an “I’m still alive,” declaration.

Then after the British invasion on our mail box, it becomes a potpourri of postmarks — anywhere from neighbors just down the street to people across the country. My wife quickly fires our cards back.

We used to take a picture of us and our eight grandkids over Thanksgiving for our Christmas cards. They would all be in their matching pajamas that my wife would buy them every year. But this fall, I told her that the grandkids — ages 9 to 17 — were too old for that. She thought about it and sadly agreed.

I pictured them feeling like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” when he was forced to wear the pink bunny suit that his Aunt Clara sent him. So who would have guessed that the grandkids would start a mini-revolt about not getting their pajamas this year?

I got that wrong. I’m probably wrong with my approach to Christmas cards, too.

Oh, ok, I know I’m wrong. One of my New Year’s resolutions should be to get back to writing Christmas cards in 2022.

Except that I gave up New Year’s resolutions last year, too.