Christmas

The weather here has grown surprisingly cold. Maybe not for some of the soldiers, but certainly for me, a Texas native for whom 65 degrees is chilly. Actually, the weather here now is fairly close to typical Texas Chrismas - bitter chill at night followed by mild, rather pleasant afternoons.

Walking to work at night or to breakfast in the morning, the chill can bite right through your clothes. I have a jacket and a fleece coat, but somedays when it's too hot to wear them on my afternoon commute, I have to leave them in my locker. And the next morning, I really freeze.

I had actually laughed when they gave me this stuff. "I'm going to the desert, right?" I said. I even turned down a second Gore-Tex jacket that they were going to give me. I didn't think I'd need two. Now I wish I hadn't.

The cold is bad enough, and fortunately, it's not too windy most days, but when the wind comes, it can really blow. There's also the "rainy season" coming up, a time when our sea of sand transforms into a sea of mud. Or so I'm told. So far we've only had a light drizzle - perhaps two times in the nearly four months I've been here. Just enough to give the sand a crunchy feel.

It didn't last long, but for a moment, I could almost close my eyes and imagine it was snow. Trudging to chow one morning, I amused myself by singing, "I'm dreaming of a taaaannn Christmas..."

Of course, "White Christmas" has a huge relevance to soldiers, and I thought about that a lot this week. But more about that later...

* * *

There aren't too many outward signs that Christmas is here. There are no malls, no crowds, no pushy parents and screaming kids. Just a bleak landscape with sparse trees and bitter cold nights.

Of course, the first Christmas - the one that this whole season's about - happened in a land not too far distant from this place - say the distance from San Antonio to El Paso. I'm sure the three wise men, heading to Bethlehem must have passed through Baghdad. It's really the only way "Eastern Kings" could have come.

There are a few signs though, and in this dreary place, which seems more and more like a prison every day, you get the ocasional spalshes of color. On the route between work and home, for example, is the headquarters for the U.S. Army chaplains. There they have a few blow-up Christmas decorations, which look dramatically out of place:

(Note the Humvees in the background.)

It's easy to think sometimes that the troops have been forgotten here. And perhaps if you listened to the elite, and listened to the media - which is strangely silent now that things are going so well - you might get that impression.

But there are a lot of Great Americans every day who remind us that we are not forgotten, and not unappreciated. All throughout the year, they're sending gifts, sending cards and sending prayers, and let me tell you, the troops over here know it.

One of the many signs of support from companies,

unions and schools that are hung in chow halls,

recreation centers and anywhere else soldiers gather.

Another message of support.

Not only that, but they send us stuff. Tons and tons of stuff.

I'm pretty fortunate. I've got lots of great friends and they're sending me a lot of stuff. In fact, it's probably too much. That which I can't use, of course, I give away to other soldiers.

There's a lot of that going on here, and because of it, almost nothing goes to waste. If you send some cookies to a soldier, whatever non-crumbs make it over, they typically get eaten by somebody. It may not be your cousin from Dallas who you sent it to. It may be one of his platoon buddies. Or a Brit or Austrialian. Or it may be a soldier from Armenia, for whom Christmas might bring back memories of his parents celebrating quietly behind curtains - to avoid the eyes of the KGB.

In my unit, the Multi-National Corps Iraq, the stuff we don't use goes out in the hallway of the palace on a table we refer to as the "Wal-Mart" table. Food, toiletries, books, magazines, flip-flops - you name it. Someone sent three large boxes of popcorn. The donors are often regular Americans, not rich, who want to do something to help. But they're also people who have been successful, who have not forgotten the troops either. Some record company sent a ton of CDs. That Tae-Bo guy from all the infomercials sent dozens of backpacks crammed with all sorts of goodies - obviously at great expense.

Some of these people come to visit. The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders were here a few months back. So were the Washington Redskins Cheerleaders. And even comedian Carlos Mencia, with his dimminuative sidekick.

A close-up of the Wal-Mart table.

In the picture, you see the table after it's been cleaned off by a wave of soldiers.

Soldiers rush in to pick up backpacks filled with goodies from the Tae-Bo guy.

All these generic gifts are great, but it's something even more special to a soldier to get something with his name on it. Sure, it's great that people haven't forgotten the troops, but it's also good to know every now and then that they haven't forgotten you.

A lot of people have sent me stuff, and I'm grateful to all of them.

To the office of my old boss, State Rep. Dianne Delisi - who sent me her old Texas Parks and Wildlife Magazines. Passing them out after I've read them to a bunch of soldiers from Fort Hood, you'd have thought I was handing them bars of gold.

To my sister who sent me tons of goodies, none of which was quite as special as the hand-written notes from my neice and the "good-luck" bracelet she made me. To my Aunt from Floresville, Texas, who sent me molasses cookies made just the way that my great-aunt made when I was a kid. To my friends Keith and Linda who sent a box so big I practically had to fill out an Army Risk Management form to be allowed to carry it home.

Even people I've never met have sent me stuff. Folks who are friends of a friend. Folks who read this blog. One family in College Station packed up four boxes of goodies, including home-made cookies - along with photographs of their small children having fun making those exact cookies. They also sent a photo of their kids watching the Texas Aggie Band marching in a parade.

These little touches of home are great, and if I feel overwhelmed by all the stuff, I have no hesitation to put some of it out on the table. Not everybody here has people back home sending them stuff, and if I can help those folks, so much the better.

It's Christmas eve right now, but you wouldn't quite notice. There's some gunfire off in the distance, but I'm not sure if that's a battle, or some Iraqis still celebrating over their soccer team's recent win. Hopefully the latter. Either way, I plan to go home and celebrate a little in my trailer, which is strung with lights by my neighbor. My celebration, of course, will be solitary and simple, but that's how it goes. It will likely consist of an hour or so of guitar playing, followed by the watching of the DVD of the old stop-motion "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Raindeer" movie, which my sister sent me.

* * *

One last note. I mentioned "White Christmas." For those who don't know, Bing Crosby wrote and recorded that one back during another time of war. In World War II, thousands of Americans were deployed in Africa, Europe, and spread throughout the many distant and lonely islands of the South Pacific. When "White Christmas" came out, no one ever dreamed that it would become the biggest musical hit of all time.

But for thousands of Americans, far from home, who listened to it over crackling radios and found themselves "dreaming of a white Christmas" it hit home. It did because it brought back to them the nostalgia of Christmas past, and the bitter-sweet pangs of the Christmas they were missing. But more importantly, it's a song of hope. For those Americans across the world, it reminded them that Christmas - and all it stands for - goes on. That the one thing that most unites our country - Christians and non-Christians alike - remains the same.

So tonight, as I struggle out of bed and trudge to work in the cold Baghdad night, I'll be dreaming of a white Christmas too. Not that I've ever had a white Christmas in Texas, but that's not the point. What I'll be dreaming of is Christmas as I knew it. Christmas as it was when I was a child. Christmas as it will be when I go home. Christmas in all its gaudy sparkle, but also Christmas in its most pure - most holy essence. Christmas in the heart, the redemption and promise that it represents.

White, tan, whatever. Christmas will always be Christmas, and that's good enough for me.

Merry Christmas, Folks!