The Kid Down the Hall has decided we will go to Sharon Woods. We will boil some hot chocolate and pour it in a Thermos. We will make a tape of Christmas songs. We will put a blanket in the back of the Taurus, the rear seat of which we will fold down to accommodate two burgeoning children.

        And we will go see the lights.

        This is what he wants to do this holiday season. This is what he remembers about Christmas. This is what makes him feel good in the heart.

        Anna Quindlen, the newspaper columnist-turned-novelist, has written a wise book that's out just in time. A Short Guide to a Happy Life might seem a presumptuous title — who is she to tell me? — if it weren't so tuned to what ails the spirit. And what can fix it.

        “Life is made of moments,” Ms. Quindlen writes. “Realize that life is glorious, and that you have no business taking it for granted.”

        What a season to frame that thought. The holidays are when we feel full and empty at the same time. Full: Look at all this stuff we have. You can't see the floor for the presents. Empty: Look who's not here. Brothers hither, sisters yon, parents scattered all over the compass.

        I saw a woman nearly launch a full-scale riot Monday when she line-jumped at the post office. People had been standing all morning. The line was out the door. If this were Moscow, we'd have been waiting for bread. The merry Christmas shippers standing in line freezing all had that cheery Charlie Manson look about them.

        As did I. This time of year, I'm as sunny as a tax audit. Peace on earth, goodwill to men. And if you take that parking space I've been circling a half hour to find, I will crease your smug face with this big roll of packing tape.

        We spend too much time tearing about, buying stuff. We don't notice the moments.

        For Christmas, I want a convertible and my own island in the gulfstream. I want one of those old, metal tabletop hockey games where you pushed and pulled the rods to control the players and the puck was a ballbearing encased in rubber.

        I want five minutes to remember everything I've forgotten. And everyone.

        I want to learn lessons and do better. I want family to call and friends to stop by. I want, just once, for time to linger at Christmas, instead of blowing past me like a Chicago wind.

        But I don't need anything. I haven't needed anything for 20 years.

        My Stuff level is somewhere between Saturated and Superfluous.

        At my house, we accumulate stuff. We get so much stuff at Christmas, we have to write it all down, and who sent it, so we can thank them and not someone else who also sent us stuff.

        I got lots of stuff last Christmas, but I couldn't tell you what it was. I sent lots of stuff, but I don't remember who got what. I hope they enjoyed it. I don't remember my first bike, either. I do remember my dad teaching me to ride it.

        I remember him throwing the football to me in the snow on Christmas day, when he'd rather be doing anything else. I remember the smell of cookies baking in the kitchen, and that my mother didn't especially like them.

        I remember Christmas dinner at my grandmother's. I remember the homemade egg nog she called “float.” I remember it had bourbon in it. I remember being glad to see everyone, and everyone being glad to see me.

        But I couldn't tell you one present anyone ever got me.

        The Kid Down the Hall is 14. It's a cynical age, usually selfish, and not exactly reflective. But not always. He said all he really wanted was to go to Sharon Woods and see the lights with his family.

        He didn't know it then. He doesn't know it now. But he made at least one person's Christmas. Talk about gifts.

       Contact Paul Daugherty at 768-8454; fax: 768-8330.
       

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