The author as a young boy celebrates Christmas in the midst of one of the most tumultuous years of the 1960s. These are his memories of that wonderful day in his life juxtaposed with world events that echoed throughout the family home by television.
“Despite the passage of over four decades from what the Chinese called the year of the Monkey, my memories of that year remain a jumbled toy box of strange snippets: riots, assassinations, street violence, protests, and the never ending news segments on the war in Vietnam. My parents debated and argued about these over dinner while I fought with my sisters over who got dessert.
So many times my parents gasped over something on the news. I would look up to see what it was, take note of the chaos on the screen and turn back to my toys. All of this to a fourth grader was like pepper floating about in the air: I didn’t know what it was, but it definitely made me sneeze.”
We follow his family as they celebrate Christmas while three men are headed towards the moon in Apollo 8, the one high note of 1968. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.
It's about the blurred lines of tortuous memories from my childhood and the dreams after the birth of my second son. The story-line goes between the two areas and the confusion as to the idea that my dreams (of killing my two baby boys) could actually become a reality without my conscious being able to separate whether I'm dreaming or not...it ends in my suicide to spare my sons as well as leave my body to ask God what the purpose of my life actually meant in the grand scheme of things.