I'm fighting the "bah humbugs." At the tender age of seventy-two, I say things like, "You know what they say about the holidays?" Pause for effect. "The first seventy are fun." I don't want to be that grumpy old man. I don't want to remember that terrible day in first grade when the kid behind me in lunch line said Santa wasn't real. I was stunned, knowing right away he was telling the terrible truth. Everything suddenly made sense. Like why Mom told me the toy soldiers were from Santa when I knew they came from Grandpa. And why Dad was so tired on Christmas morning when it was supposedly Santa who did all the work. My mother never did come clean on the Santa thing. She always said Santa was the spirit of Christmas, which is the joy of giving. I kind of got that, but she totally lost me on the "more blessed to give than to receive." I knew for a fact that made no sense. It took decades for me to understand how we only keep what we have by giving it away. That's what I have to keep remembering. You can't fill the hole in your soul with fortune and fame or even with spiked eggnog. But don't despair. No need to make it difficult. All you need to give is a little bit of kindness.