The True Meaning of Christmas: Dumpster Diving on a Cold Christmas Morning

The snow began to fall on this bone chilling blustery Christmas morning. Not the fluffy white flakes that transforms the landscape into a wintry wonderland or warms the hearts of those wishing for a white Christmas, but stinging biting icy white pellets driven horizontally by wind gusts of close to 30 m.p.h.

First off, I am not a "Christmassy" type person. As a matter of fact, some describe me as Scrooge incarnate. I don't walk around with a "bah humbug" attitude, but life experience has taught me that all the preparation and hoopla associated with the holiday ends abruptly and anticlimactically around 4:00 P.M. on December 25. My gift wrapping skills are atrocious and all are better off if I simply place a gift in a brown paper bag. There are very few Christmas songs I like. My favorite is "Come All Ye Faithful" by Twisted Sister. And the weather conditions today were adding fuel to the fire.

I was driving to the nearby convenience mart when I received a call from my daughter. I answered with a cheery "Hello" trying to keep in the holiday spirit, but I immediately detected in her voice that something was amiss. That happy, energetic, bubbly voice that I am accustomed to hearing was replaced by a low, almost inaudible, voice of stress coupled with just a tinge of panic. There was no "Hello," "Hi," "Good Morning," "How are you?" or "Merry Christmas." When answered with a, "Where are you?", I feared the worse. She had been planning this day for some time now. Christmas dinner for the family in her new condo A thousand thoughts crossed my mind before I could answer. Was she sick? Power outage? Had her feline companion ate the ham? Worse than that, had her feline companion accidentally been placed in the oven or microwave?

Again she asked in a trembling voice, "Where are you?" I told her I was on the way to the store around the corner from her condo and less than a minute away. She then explained her plight and set my mind at ease. She believed that she inadvertently threw something away and this something was in a bag in the dumpster.

An easy task, one might think except for the fact that these dumpsters were not the ordinary dumpsters one might find in a city alley. These dumpsters are of commercial grade. These oversized monsters of iron and steel, standing more than six foot high at its peak and five feet where the lid opens, can easily house a normal kindergarten class complete with teacher and desk. One does not just place a trash bag in this type of dumpster; one has to do a two handed push of the bag overhead and in. An Olympian feat in itself, but more than even the gods could contend with when you take into account that somehow, someway, the lid must be propped open. To make matters worse (could things really be worse?) the dumpster sits within a sturdy plastic eight foot enclosure with two enormous doors that will slam shut if nudged by even a gentle breeze.

I told my daughter I would be there shortly and would get to the bottom of this - no pun intended.

I was not well equipped for such a venture. Since I had planned to go to church immediately after my trip to the store, my heavy winter coat was at home and my gloves were in the pocket of said coat. My lightweight khaki trousers, a long sleeve shirt and a light jacket were no match for the bitter cold. The snow felt like shards of metal as it struck my exposed skin. My fingers were already numb as I opened the gates to face the demon. The gates began flapping in the howling wind and reminded me of the shutters on the windows of those house in the old horror flicks.

Clearance between the dumpster and the wall of the enclosure was minimal, barely enough to place the stepstool which was a necessary item for the task at hand. I climbed onto the stool bracing myself as best I could against the winds that in my opinion had now reached gale force. The lid was frozen to the frame and had to be pried open. There inside, near the bottom, was the bright red bag my baby girl had described and supposedly held the bounty, the pirate's treasure, the Holy Grail itself that I had been commissioned to liberate. With one hand I supported the lid, while I reached for the bag with the other, my legs flailing in the air, all the time precariously balancing myself on my stomach, lest I be swallowed up by the beast. The weight of the lid and the force of the wind began to push me deeper into the pit and a feeling of panic and doom overwhelmed me. Time was now of the essence After several unsuccessful attempts, I made one final lunge by locking my knees against the outside of the frame and grasped the prize in my outstretched fingertips. I rocked backward and threw my legs down onto the safety of the stepstool. I had finally surfaced after being submerged far too long.

I handed the bag to my smiling daughter and as she searched the smile turned to a frown. "Nope, it isn't here," she sadly remarked. "Must still be in the house," she said as she threw the bag back into the dumpster. She gave me hints as to other bags that might contain the prize, a pair of new earrings I now learned, but I couldn't see anything of the sort. We folded up the stepstool and retreated to her home to thaw.

The adventure had ended in disappointment. The prize like so many other expectations in life had eluded us. Yet, one must persevere and overcome the obstacles , those trials and tribulations , that slip into our daily lives. Some are large; some small. But no matter the complexity of a hindrance, we know we can rely on each other for support.

I didn't make it to church. I went home and had a beer. Later that day, my daughter placed a magnificent dinner on the table. I was proud of her.

That evening as I sat at my table, I received a text message. " You are still my hero." That made it a Merry Christmas.