Death, lies, braggadocio - a Christmas tale

The magazine article said: "Add a touch of personal warmth to your Christmas newsletter with a handwritten note. Ask about their trip, or their new baby."

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The Last Word by Fern Chandonnet. He can be reached at fchandonnet@juneauempire.com.

Which is exactly what I did. And what did I receive in return? Outrage and vilification - all through my wife of course, since my mother-in-law has never directly communicated with me.

Anyhow, that was only the beginning of my troubles - which started with the consignment of the family Xmas letter to my bailiwick.

And that Xmas stuff didn't contribute to much peace and good will, either, as I tried to explain in the newsletter that "Xmas" has been in use for several hundred years, and in a hallowed and reverent way - the "X" signifying "chi," the first letter in "Khristos," the Greek word for "Christ." I recommended that the yahoos who condemn "Xmas" as a vulgarity be clapped in stocks in front of malls and have Xmas pudding flung at them - or, probably more to their liking, Jell-O in which tiny marshmallows have been suspended. (It is not my fault that a lot of addressees of my Xmas letters are movers and shakers in the yahoo community. And I would wager few of them could distinguish between the "Gulliver's Travels" denizen and the online search engine.)

The response? Not "Merry Xmas"; not "Bless, you, Fern." No. A cousin - who lives in New Jersey, for God's sake - wrote back: "This is America, Pal. We don't need Greeks telling us what to do." Another responded snidely: "Let's put the "Fern" back in "Ferndock."

Thinking safety first, I decided I'd better forget about purveying wisdom to the hoi polloi and that I needed instead to choose one of the three main themes of Christmas letters everywhere: stunningly boring personal recollections, bragging, or the detailed progression of Uncle Bob's disease.

So, bragging - the most popular of Christmas outpourings - it was to be.

And there was no dearth of examples.

In years past, we had received the annual form letter from Arthur and Rita, in California. The missive was ever filled with examples of the promise of young John, their son, who had of late "taken a real interest in the justice system and is seriously interested in the career of parole officer. John meets with one regularly to discuss the various options," wrote Arthur and Rita.

(Of course it's Rita doing the writing. They all claim "we" are doing the writing. But men - real men - I have since found out, are constitutionally unable to toss off an Xmas form letter without sticking it to SOMEbody.)

Worse, though, are the people who tell the truth.

I hate that.

Bill and Chloe (whose names I have changed lest they spread shame upon the rest of us) have three gorgeous children whom they've schooled at home since infancy (the children's). Understand, please, this is not your basic home-school-because-of-rampant-Communism-and-sin-and-they're-all-wearing-thong-underwear-even-the-teachers kind of thing. Bill and Chloe have advanced Ivy League degrees; both have published books; both are from very wealthy families.

It gets worse.

Their children are now all Ph.Ds, from Ivy League yaddah yaddah. One is doing post-doctoral work; another is pursuing a second doctorate, "for fun"; the third thought he'd spend a month becoming fluent in a new language.

Look for this triumvirate to replace the presidency someday.

I had to fight back.

It began with a small exaggeration here, a tiny hyperbole there: such as the item in the '96 Xmas newsletter about my Ph.D in international relations from Harvard. (I mean, a lot of people have those - Kissinger, etc., etc.)

I do have a degree of sorts - a high school diploma - and I do have some knowledge of international relations, having spent some time overseas as a GI So it wasn't that much of a stretch.

Of interest: The idea for the mild plumping up of qualities and conditions had come to me some years before when a Republican candidate for state office had been roundly denounced in the press during the primary for having made up her entire curriculum vitae: advanced degrees, political consultancy, advisor to the government on international affairs. No one knew why she made it all up, since the polls showed her wiping out her opponent. She was also superbly qualified for the position, being a gorgeous leggy brunette of 40 or so who had proposed the death penalty for anyone who couldn't find work.

But I digress.

Bill and Chloe couldn't leave well enough alone. An ugly and intense correspondence accelerated over the ensuing year: They wrote a note asking whether I wanted an introduction to a certain (possibly helpful) person at the State Department. I declined the offer, saying I preferred finding my own way and, anyway, I had a lead on a diplomatic posting in Paris. I thought I was home free, but they replied that I wouldn't like Paris - because of the traffic congestion - and an uncle would be getting in touch with me soon about the open attache position in Bulgaria (which would be perfect, they added, cryptically, because of certain of my nearly-Bulgarian proclivities).

One thing led to another until I flat-out had to tell them that the French Senat was giving serious consideration to appointing me king of France (adding that I had already served in that position some 23 years ago and dropping the meaningful hint that a check with personnel files would not reveal that I had served as king, since the French destroy personnel work records after 20 years.)

Anyway, that's where it is now. And the pen I have in hand for this year's newsletter seems to weigh about 50 pounds.

I don't know, sometimes I wish I could start all over.

Well, have a merry Xmas and, oh yes, how's the new baby?