John Pepin, Michigan Department of Natural Resources

Past the dimmed and cracked corners of the memories in my mind’s eye, I can see those week-before-Christmas days of my very young boyhood.

Even in those early times, we were being indoctrinated and transformed from innocent and curious toddlers into ravenous post-war American consumers.

We were being raised up on Saturday morning cartoon television and big department store holiday catalogs. We were far too simple then to understand Madison Avenue concepts like cross promotion, product placement and motivational research.

Those now-classic Christmas television shows, like A Charlie Brown Christmas, which originally aired with Coca-Cola advertising included, and “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” with embedded plugs from The Foundation for Full Service Banks, the presentation sponsor, were making their debuts.

Even though both these kids’ television programs showcased the virtues of Christmases based on kindness and love, rather than Christmas presents, abundance and commercialism, the crucial confluence of kids, advertising and Christmas gift-getting had already been galvanized.

It was as though television producers and advertising slicks had been there since the beginning with us kids – in the crib and maybe even before that.

To kids, the idea of Santa Claus, in all his storied toy-giving altruism, was as vibrant and alive as a big, hard snowball smacking you right against the side of the head.

In this, he was unlike the far-less convincing Easter Bunny. We were familiar with rabbits. We were used to seeing them almost daily in our backyards or on our walks to school.

Supposedly, the Easter Bunny was hopping around outside, bringing us candy eggs, on beds of green, plastic grass inside woven baskets. There was no explanation as to how he got into and out of our homes, while we were asleep.

Santa Claus was a god-like figure. He was omniscient and omnipresent – even when it wasn’t Christmastime. He was also watching and keeping track of all the times we crossed against our parents.

There were even songs that spelled it all out.

“He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness’ sake.”

Yeesh. If we wanted toys – and we most certainly did – kids had but to conform, straighten up and fly right.

We had questions, as we rightfully should have, but mostly, we swallowed the idea hook, line and sinker – probably because the bait looked so tempting.

I can still hear kids my age arguing about Santa.

“Oh yeah, he’s real. He’s gonna bring me everything I want.”

“Oh yeah, what’s he gonna bring you?”

“Stuff. Why would I tell you? You don’t even believe in him.”

“As if.”

“As if what?”

“As if he will.”

“As if he won’t.”

Kids with older siblings usually tended to be the ones most likely to cast doubt.

It was usually about this time that any parent overhearing the conversation would chime in with something like, “Now, let’s not ruin anyone’s Christmas.”

“Thanks, mom.”

Our Christmas wish lists could be long, but best prioritized.

We could ask, wish and hope for anything we might possibly want – things we’d seen in those 2-inch-thick catalogs from Sears, J.C. Penney and Montgomery Wards or the latest gadgets and toys advertised on TV.

I remember that sometimes we just wrote down catalog page numbers where we had circled things we wanted.

We only needed to send a letter to Santa at the North Pole, that our parents could help us write, and on Christmas Eve before bed, leave out a few Christmas cookies our mom baked with a glass of milk for Santa and his reindeer.

When we awoke on Christmas Day, all would be revealed.

Parents and kids would all tumble down the stairs from bed to the living room to see what Santa brought.

The thrill and happiness we felt separating, opening and receiving the gifts we got from Santa and parents and relatives almost always overshadowed any disappointments we might have had – especially since we got extra things we hadn’t even asked for.

Occasionally, there would be one kid who felt they were “ripped off” if they hadn’t got the doll or car or toy they wanted – even if cost about as much as a king’s ransom.

Regarding Santa Claus, we all would have been shocked, doubters included, if we had any idea how complicit our own parents had been in perpetrating that fantastic fiction.

When they eventually pulled out the hook we had swallowed, it really hurt.

Still aghast at the idea that this all could have been some sort of lavish betrayal, it wasn’t long before we would hear something like, “Oh yeah, and about the Easter Bunny…”

Reactions on that disclosure were mixed in our house, ranging from “No, not the Easter Bunny too?” to “Well, I figured that. Now what?”

But before all those revelations, in those halcyon snow-globe wonderland days of youth, during the week or so before Christmas – the days I mentioned earlier – we would be so full of excitement and anticipation we could pop.

We were like Mexican jumping beans, probably fidgeting wildly and constantly bugging my mom with questions like “How many more days?” “Is he coming tonight?” and “When are you going to make the cookies for Santa?”

This is probably why my parents would send us outside to play.

They could get some peace and quiet while we could roll down snowbanks, run and jump in the snow, throw snowballs or walk around sucking on a freshly picked icicle.

There were also flying saucers to pull each other on and ride down hills and snowbanks with.

Looking back, one of my favorite activities was doing almost nothing.

When we kids got tired, we would just fall back into the snow and lay there silently in our winter snow suits, boots and knitted mittens, huffing and puffing – just looking up at the sky.

I enjoyed the intermittent silences as much as I did the conversations.

After a minute or so, one kid would say something, and another would chime in.

“Do you think Spiderman could beat up Superman?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“He just has those webs.”

“So? I think he could.”

“You don’t know.”

“YOU don’t know.”

“Hey, look at the moon.”

“Whoa, that’s cool.”

“When we were at my grandpa’s camp, we saw a meteor with a big, long tail.”

“That’s boss. When we went fishing, out by the basin, we saw a bear run across the road.”

“No way. How big was he?”

“Bigger than my grandma’s davenport.”

These conversations might continue for as long as a half hour or so, until one of us got cold from laying in the snow for that long.

“I’m going in.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

Then, even all alone, a kid might very well stay outside and continue to play.

I remember doing that.

It was often just doing things like trying to knock down house icicles with snowballs or digging paths with a shovel or maybe starting to try to build a fort.

I might also go inside the house, strip off all the winter clothing, some of which might now be wet, and put it on the floor by the furnace register to dry.

Then, after a snack and a chance to warm up, I remember trying to convince a previously reluctant sibling to go outside and play in the snow.

Many times, they would – especially if they had just been bored in the house doing nothing while my mom was in the kitchen and my dad was watching football or reading the newspaper.

Anyone allowed to stay in the house would have had to have mustered up a pretty good excuse. It was usually a strict order to get outside and play.

I wasn’t the kind of kid you had to tell twice to do that – everything else maybe, but not that. I was usually the first one out the front door.

Those December outings focused conversation on the upcoming excitement of Christmastime.

I liken it to the banter of bank robbers on the evening before the big heist.

“What are you gonna do with your share of the loot?”

“I don’t know, maybe go out west, where it’s warm. You know?”

“Yeah, I know. You got some big dreams, cowboy.”

Even once we had come into the house and got ready for bed, the anticipation and excitement often kept us from falling into restful sleep.

We just couldn’t stop thinking about Christmas. We told ourselves that if we fell asleep, we’d wake up and it would be one day closer to Christmas, but even that strategy couldn’t often dampen my holiday exuberance.

Life is so odd. Nowadays, I don’t really care if I get a single Christmas gift – a far cry from those kid days.

Instead, I most appreciate the quiet and wintry nights relaxing in a room lit only by Christmas tree lights – maybe enjoying a mug of eggnog and biting the head off a sugar cookie Santa or two.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.