“You can open ONE present tonight,” my mother said. “But ONLY one. Since it’s Christmas Eve.”

My feet only touched the ground twice.

I ran to the Christmas tree like a squirrel on illegal stimulants. Our tree was pitiful. Charlie Brown had nothing on us.

Beneath the tree was one, skinny, oblong box with my name on it. I selected this box. I tore the paper.

It was a telescope.

“It’s not much,” Mama said.

I looked at the box. “It’s a telescope.”

Mama smiled. “So you really can read.”

It was a 40mm refractor called a Halleyscope. It must have cost my mother all she had. My mother cleaned condos and threw newspapers for a living.

This was her the coupe de grace of her Christmas bounty. The rest of my gifts would be cans of smoked oysters, jars of mayonnaise, or Haynes underpants.

“I know you like looking at stars,” she said.

It was true. I loved the stars. Every week I watched “Star Gazers” on PBS, hosted by Jack Horkheimer, the Star Hustler. The

world’s only weekly television series on naked eye astronomy. Still on the air today. I rarely missed an episode.

I took the telescope into the yard. I set up the tripod. I knew exactly what I would point the scope at that night. I aimed the lens at the moon.

Namely, because it was Christmas Eve. And the moon was full that year. For the first time on a holiday weekend since 1977, the moon was full. The next time the moon would be full would be 2015. After that, 2034. This was a big deal in the Metonic Cycle. A big, big deal.

I aimed my Halleyscope at the sky. There were 5,185 craters on the moon looking back at me. Crisp and clear.

I nearly cried. But then, of course fatherless boys don’t actually cry. Children of suicide don’t cry. Especially…

“In prison,” said Charlie, “all you want is to know someone loves you.”

Charlie had been inside for 22 years. Nobody ever came to visit at Christmas. Never. Not even once. Sometimes he wondered if anyone remembered him.

Usually, Charlie’s Christmas consisted of going to the chow hall—it was the only time of year when the kitchen actually made an effort to give you decent food.

A lot of the guys just hung out in the TV rooms, watching the NBA. Others drank prison hooch. Some just stayed in their cells and stared at the walls.

Christmas morning in prison is quiet. Uneventful. For most, it is a reminder of how crappy your life is. How forgotten you are. Another calendar day.

Families rarely visit inmates on Christmas. What would you rather do on Christmas? Stay home and eat ham? Or get dressed and go to the clink for visiting hours?

Most guys inside don’t see any family members unless they’re locked up with them.

But this Christmas morning was different. They woke Charlie and told him he had

visitors.

“Visitors?” said Charlie.

“Get dressed,” said the guard. “They’re already here, waiting for you.”

“Who is?”

“You’ll see.”

Who could be visiting? Charlie had gone inside when he was in his 30s. He was in his 50s now. His frame was gaunt. His hair was white. The other inmates called him “Pops.”

The guard led him to the visiting area. They called the visiting area the “dance floor.” You only went to the dance floor, if you were lucky. Most guys never got to go.

If you were, however, taken to the dance floor, you lived like royalty. You ate from vending machines. You could play around with your kids—if you had any. And you felt like a human being for a little while.

Charlie followed the guard to the dance floor with a lump of clay in his throat.…

I almost didn’t write this because I swore I’d never tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. But I have to.

A few weeks ago I received a letter postmarked from Nunavut, Canada. An invitation said that I had been selected along with a few other writers for an exclusive, one-on-one interview with a very important person who wears a red suit and owns a lot of reindeer and is not Oprah Winfrey.

The next day, I was on a plane from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, flying to Milwaukee Mitchell International Airport. Our plane landed in a bunch of Midwestern gray snow. And I mean a bunch of snow.

Milwaukee was as cold as a witch’s underwire. I don’t know why anyone would choose to live in Milwaukee in the winter. Which brings up a joke my mother’s friend Judy, from Milwaukee always tells:

“What do you call a good looking man on the streets of Milwaukee?” “Frozen to death.”

So the layover wasn’t too bad. Neither were my other connecting flights to Tacoma,

British Columbia, and Fairbanks International Airport.

When I reached Alaska, things were touch-and-go. I caught a commuter flight to Deadhorse Airport, near Prudhoe Bay—which is basically the edge of the world where the temperature drops to forty below zero sometimes.

The next commuter plane was piloted by a Norwegian guy named Arvid who, while we were flying through a heavy blizzard, remarked, “I have never flown in an actual blizzard before.”

So things were going great. When we finally touched down, Arvid made the Sign of the Cross, and I changed my trousers.

We were on the remote Fosheim Peninsula at a research facility on Ellesmere Island. This facility has been continuously manned since 1947 and was covered in about ten feet of snowdrift. But the men who run the place are very friendly. Which is remarkable considering they are isolated from modern civilization and most of…

When I was a kid, our Christmases were so small you could have held them in the back of a van. It wasn’t that we were poor insomuch as my dad was a notorious cheapskate. Mama said if he ever died he would walk toward the light merely so he could turn it off.

This was because father’s family sprang from immigrants. These were financially cautious people who only got married for the rice. My father’s people were also German, so they were humor impaired.

I don’t mean to generalize, but as a culture, Germans do not grasp the subtle nature of humor. I was once hired to entertain for a German civic club banquet in Pittsburgh. I told my first joke and heard only the hum of the A/C. At which point a lady in the audience rose and whispered to her husband: “Ziss man gives me headache, Heinrich.”

I stood there, staring at 500 granite faces. Heinrich and I had 59 minutes left.

So anyway, our Christmases were handmade affairs. Because handmade stuff was cheaper. My mother refused to buy gifts when she could handmake them. Our wrapping paper was reused supermarket bags. Our decor came from the backyard. My mother sewed everything. My only non-handmade gift was manufactured by the Fruit of the Loom corporation.

I’ll never forget visiting a friend’s house one December day, and seeing the stark differences between our holidays.

My friend’s family had a tree so big it took four men to carry it. They needed an FAA license just to put the star on top. Most importantly, his tree WASN’T PLASTIC. There were mountains of gifts, wrapped in colorful paper, and none of their decorations were made of Elmer’s glue and popcorn.

Moreover, the house was littered with crystal bowls, all filled with glorious little yogurt-dipped pretzels. You could eat as many as you wanted and…

Six years ago. The Waffle House was packed. There were customers everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Sardine-like. I don’t know how the waitress managed to find a place for us at the counter. We were crammed into the corner, with a front-row view of the chef de cuisine.

The cook loaded the grill with all manner of pork products. Everything was hissing. Pots bubbling. Slabs of meat sizzling. Waffle irons spewing.

It was Christmas night, and we didn’t know where else to go.

It was surprising to see so many people inside on Christmas night. They must have all been weary highway travelers just like us. On their way back from family gatherings which had drained them of their lifeforce, left them with saggy eyes, and little will to live.

Family holiday gatherings can be difficult. Namely, because everyone in your family is completely bat-excrement crazy except you.

A guy wandered into the Waffle House. He was wearing rags. Fingerless gloves. Watch cap. The staff apparently knew

him. They called him by nickname.

“Hi, King Charles!” the staff all said.

And the employees all bowed and curtsied.

The king smiled his tooth at them, but said nothing.

The waitress found a place for him at the bar, in a seat beside us. The king grinned at me. I grinned back. I do not believe he had bathed in three, maybe four presidential administrations.

And even though the place was overrun with customers, the waitress took His Majesty’s order before taking anyone else’s.

“Your Highness,” said the waitress. “What’ll it be?”

The old man had a hard time talking. His mouth was moving, but nothing came out.

“Same as usual?” said the waitress.

He nodded.

The knit cap came off to reveal a mass of greasy white hair. He looked at me again, just to make sure I…

I receive a lot of questions. They come in the form of emails, private messages, subpoenas, etc. I cannot answer them all, but I am able to answer a few.

Q: Sean, I am moderately offended. You mentioned the ongoing debate over saying “merry Christmas” and “happy holidays.” Saying “merry Christmas” can be offensive in the wrong context. We say “happy holidays” because we respect others. What if I’m someone who chooses not to celebrate Christmas? What if I’m someone who celebrates Kwanzaa, or Hanukkah, or Bodhi Day?

A: What if I’m someone who doesn’t celebrate happiness?

Q: I was a fan of your writing until you chose a side and advocated saying “merry Christmas” instead of “happy holidays.” Saying happy holidays is inclusive for all religions and lifestyles. Whereas Christmas was invented by dogma. I am an atheist, Sean, I don’t want a corporation forcing religious holidays on me. Don’t I deserve a holiday, too?

A: How about April 1st?

Q: I am 74 years old and have been in a three-month long

relationship with an impostor claiming to be Sean of the South. This man told me that his wife left him and that he wanted to have an intimate relationship with me.

We talked every day for many months. When he finally asked for money I realized I had been scammed and he was not Sean of the South. Now I’m so hurt because, even though I’ve been scammed, I feel like I’ve lost a friend. His writing was just like Sean’s, except he seemed to know how to say all the things a lady truly wants to hear, and how to make me feel like a woman.

A: My wife requests this man’s email address.

Q: Sean, your longform content is becoming outdated and boring. This isn’t 2011, buddy. Nobody wants written articles anymore. We want VIDEO! TikTok features video content that’s more snackable, instead of…