Happy holidays to you and yours. I don’t know about you, but when the holidays come around, memories of the past come rushing to mind—both good and bad. Luckily, I have plenty of tools to support me through the old anger and hurt, and I try to hold onto the good memories for as long as I can.

This is my 68th holiday, and what usually takes place at the onset of the holidays is my getting a bit grumpy. All the holiday rituals, the movies, the decorating, and of course the Nutcracker performances I am forced to attend don’t have the charm they once had. But I am expected to string popcorn, write out Christmas cards, and buy presents for family and people I barely know. But hey, it is the holidays, and you are supposed to be happy, go to parties, eat chestnuts that were roasting on an open fire, and drink eggnog. But if you are like me, you like to keep things new and exciting.

I’ve realized that all the rigamarole that was set up to excite children can also excite the inner child in me, but he wants to have new fun and try to stay away from the same ol’ same ol’. But I still find my way watching Elf, It’s a Wonderful Life, and buying my friend Mike a fruitcake.

I got a fruitcake from a family friend once, didn’t want it, and repackaged it to give to my friend Mike. The next year, Mike gave that same fruitcake to another friend, and then it was on. We passed that damn fruitcake among us for almost a decade before a friend’s wife tossed it out. Those traditions are never too old.

When I look back on all my holiday antics, nothing compares to Christmas way back in 1976, the year I was given my first Little League baseball team to manage. You should have seen these guys — they were worse than the Bad News Bears. They had only won one game in two years before I took the helm. I was a 17-year-old hotshot who thought his shit didn’t stink. And of course, as I predicted, we went from the basement to making it to the finals, but lost the final game of the year and finished in second place. The reason I mention coaching is because of what took place that Christmas Eve.

Because we were the second-best team, I got to manage the All-Star Game! The game wasn’t important, but one of the players was. He had an incredible family, whom I had interacted with numerous times that year, and the day after the All-Star Game was completed, his father was shot and killed. I just couldn’t stand by and do nothing about it. That family was in desperate need of help or something, so I took it upon myself to do whatever I could to raise their spirits. This was a daunting task, but I tried some creative ways to make them happy.

Since the father was like the neighborhood Santa Claus, I decided to play Santa Claus myself. The night of Christmas Eve was classic. My friend Barbara, who also helped coach the team, made me a ragtag Santa suit. I personally dressed up my primer-red VW Bug to look like a sleigh. I fashioned a cardboard reindeer on the hood—with a crayoned red nose—put a big bag of presents over the trunk (though technically it was the rear engine), and blasted Christmas music that was barely heard over the roar of my two-squirrel engine. And when the sun went down, I was driving through the neighborhood in my souped-up Christmas mobile with Barbara and my fruitcake friend Mike, dressed in green and pretending to be elves. Yes, Santa Scott was coming to town.

When my Christmas mobile drove up the family’s steep driveway, it stalled out. Who cared? It was Christmas! All I needed to do was turn it around, do the gravity bump, and start the engine when I left. I was on a mission anyway. I was Santa, with two elves—what else could go wrong?

We entered a home filled with people who didn’t make a sound. I thought I had shown up in a morgue. Half the neighborhood was there, and their relatives from all over the country looked up at me with a glazed look—you know, the look you have when you’ve had way too much to drink. But then again, the father used to own a liquor store, and there was plenty of it to go around.

The family laughed in a drunken way, but the children seemed to be having a very difficult time. So I sprang into my Ho Ho Hos, grabbed the youngest, and sat her on my lap.

Santa that year was on a tight budget. I tried to get donated gifts, and my family helped, but mostly it was gum, candy, puzzles—everything under a buck. After the Santa gifts were doled out, Santa whipped out his guitar and began strumming tunes. Oh, you didn’t know that Santa played guitar? Well, this one did, and we sang all the holiday classics until my Elves noticed that we were overstaying our welcome. So with a Ho Ho Ho, Santa mounted his sleigh, turned it around, bumped the engine back into gear, and quickly it was up, up, and away! The story doesn’t end here—not in the slightest.

About a block away, another friend of mine, Michele, was having a family celebration just ending, and as I drove up, Michele pulled me over and thought I was the funniest sight she had ever seen. So with that, Santa plus Elves were at their second stop.

One thing about Santa: there are always goodies in his pockets. This Santa had his pockets filled with candy canes for the kiddies and, well, let’s just say the older folks were given something that Santa liked to put in his pipe. Again, Santa and the Elves were a smash hit, and after a celebratory drink with my friend’s father, we were up, up, and away! Quickly, I learned that peppermint schnapps sure packed a punch. Luckily, I was driving a short distance and was able to read the road better with one eye open.

Eventually, one of my Elves had to drive because Santa was too much of a lightweight and couldn’t drink and drive with only one eye open anymore. We were trying to make it around the world before the sun came up—or at least I thought.

All told, this was my first exposure to tragedy, loss, and heavy drinking. The mother coped with the loss of her soulmate this way, and it took its toll on her. The children had tremendous difficulty from that day forward, and eventually, one of the children committed suicide. From that moment, I wanted to learn more about how to help people fundamentally. The Santa bit was fun, but recovery from tragedy is no joking matter. It takes commitment, love toward oneself, and people who are compassionate to support them through the grieving process. From that day, I vowed to find solutions to people’s suffering, and most importantly, the suffering of my own. Mine stemmed from early childhood abuse, and the substances that I had been using to supposedly “feel better” were just a cover-up for the deep-seated hurt that I had been burying.

From time to time, I wonder about that family, what they are up to, and how they are surviving at this time of year. My friend Barbara, who made the Santa suit, is still close to me. She is my book editor and fellow adventurer. Mike, aka Fruit Cake, is still an Elf and as silly as ever. He and I were in a comedy group and made fools of ourselves in Hollywood at all the famous clubs, and in our bedrooms — but that’s another story. I wonder if you have heard of We Love Us? Yep, Mike and I, as well as a few other friends who are even more wacky — if that is possible — had quite a following, and we were doing spoofs before Crazy Al did.

Thanks for taking the time to reminisce with me. I am curious about your memories of the holidays. They will be surfacing now, as they always do, and hopefully you can use some of the skills that have been written about in past articles to help.

If you are having a difficult time currently, please reach out for help. This is a time to connect with family and friends, and if you don’t have any social support, at a minimum, go to a counselor and connect with them. I have been there. I have had many holidays where I was without family and friends and had to make do. I know the sadness that comes with feeling discarded and stuck with yourself. Thank God for my reaching out and getting help myself; if not, I wouldn’t be doing the work that I do today.