How Much For That Humbug?

I have been hearing a lot of talk about the commercialization of the Christmas season this year. A good portion of this has been directed squarely in my direction, since I am one of the prime offenders of doing just that. I put up my lights. I watch the holiday specials on TV. I do my shopping early and often, and what's probably worst, I ask my child to do this right along with me. What chance does he have to grow up in a world without the mind-numbing anticipation of "The Big Day?" Presently, I would say slim to none.
I have been told that things weren't always like this. I have been told that kids today are subjected to much more advertising and overt stimulation of their consumer cortex than their counterparts of previous generations. It has been suggested that we turn the clock back to "the good old days."
If that means back when my parents were children, then I wonder if we haven't set the Wayback Machine for a point in history that is still too immersed in the terror and pleasure of Christmas morning. I choose as my reference point Jean Shepard's book of short stories, "In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash." The fact that this was a commercial venture in itself and he massaged and adapted those stories into a product that eventually turned into a film called "A Christmas Story" probably disqualifies this whole argument since it's all part of that moneymaking scam. Nonetheless, I am stuck with the image of Ralphie, the hero of these tales, sitting transfixed by his radio, listening to the adventures of "Little Orphan Annie." That show was sponsored by Ovaltine. Then there was the more pressing matter of what Ralphie asked Santa to bring him: "An official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time." It's a real thing, and you can still get it less the compass in the stock and so on. It wasn't made up for the movie. Those words were probably the exact ones that rattled around Jean Shepard's head for thirty years before he had a chance to share them with the rest of the world.
My mother, who was a contemporary of Ralphie and Jean, often recalls with great reverence the "Wish Books" from Montgomery Wards that she used to pore over as a little girl. She had her list, just like we do now. Only we do it with computers. So maybe we need to keep going back to a time when Christmas wasn't about gifts. We'll have to go back more than two thousand years, since back then it seemed like every kid wanted his own gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.
Only two more shopping days...