I can't decide whether spring is my favorite time of the year when the world seems to renew itself in all its green splendor, or the fairyland of a white Christmas. Each December I become a kid again; so in a sense, I also renew myself. I become a mistletoe maniac, running around the house giving orders like a New York traffic cop.

A job which my family relegates to my artistic talents is that of wrapping presents. I like to tie on bright bows, and make sure the name tags go on the right packages, because if mother gets another pair of my husband's pyjamas she'll get all huffy, and my hubby doesn't know what to do with a silk blouse.

At this point, I turn in to a yuletide monster if one of the baubles I purchased in a foreign country smashes like a million pieces of stars in the constellation on the tile floor while I trim the tree. Almost in tears, I scoop them up giving the ornament a proper burial with all the honors of past Christmases, remembering the joy the decoration gave us. For part of our tradition is to place ornaments on the boughs, talking about the memories of the special time and place the object brought to mind, while we listen to Christmas carols and drink eggnog sprinkled with nutmeg.

I remember one particularly beautiful white Christmas when I was working in television in Frankfurt, Germany, for the Armed Forces Network. We were doing our Christmas show for the children and we were reading their letters to Santa that the Air Force was going to deliver to the North Pole. Some of the soldiers had placed their own wish list in the red Christmas box outside the studio; but we could not read them on the air because some wanted presents from Mrs. Santa, (I believe her name was Clara Claus) that I could not read; and red-faced I would have to set them aside because they contained wishes that children couldn't hear, and that Clara Clause would not want to deliver!

My husband tolerates my holiday hijinks because he is no angel himself. His job is to tend bar, which he does more than adequately. He likes to taste everything first to make sure the guests like the punch. His position is over the amount of vodka or rum or liquor to pour in the punch bowl, but I am more concerned with the color, whether to put in red cranberries or green coloring with a touch of ginger. By the time we finish the tasting argument it doesn't much matter who is right. It isn't important that the white lace tablecloth is splattered with red and green, after all, it is Christmas, which was never designed to be perfect. It is the happiness we share with our family and friends that really counts. It is all about making that extra effort with everybody to spread peace on this small earth!

The December delights of scented pine candles, gingerbread, hot cocoa with cream, stuffed toys, and bright lights, seem to make me revert to my most childish self. Why is it that I am the only one in the family with the Christmas spirit? Surely not everyone can be eggnog lazy? I pour in extra dark rum in the punch bowl to get people in the holiday mood, but I'm wondering whether "two bottles" is a misprint.

We are a family of religious diversity, with some individuals labeled Scottish Presbyterian, Polish Roman Catholic, and Latter Day Saints, (Mormon) so we stay off that subject completely. But attending Midnight Mass is de rigueur for everyone regardless of denomination, if for no other reason than I want to sing Christmas carols with the choir.

Another one of my Christmas crisis is that I don't want to know what my presents are. Either you wrap them up with the wrong paper and non-matching ribbons, or you have them gift-wrapped at the store. I don't care if you have to stand in line! But I absolutely and vehemently refuse to wrap my own presents, even if I know what is inside the tiny box because I chose it myself at the jewelry store. I love surprises of all kinds.

Trimming the tree is left up to me. Every year I pick a different theme. One year it was all red; another, red, white and blue. I think you know which year that was. Last year it was all silver, and this year it will be multi-colored. Even my dogs get in the act. They are allowed to sniff their chewies in their stockings. In Florida we don't have fireplaces, only swimming pools, so I have to put them under the tree, and Rudy and Zuzi are trained not to touch them until the 25th. But dogs have no concept of time. So by the 23rd, there is usually a whole in one of the packages. I suspect Zuzi, because Rudy my poodle, is so well-behaved. After the year he pulled one of the toys off the lower branches, and the tree came crashing down, and I ran around the house yelling at him at the top of my lungs telling him he could be exchanged for a cat, he stays away from the tree.

Poodles are so intelligent, but what can you expect from a Shih Tzu? This year Zuzi got a hold of a little blue teddy bear and absolutely refused to let me put it on the tree. She wanted me to chase her around the house for it, but I didn't have the time. When she put it in her bed, I did not have the heart to take it away from her because that is her space, which I respect. I have no backbone when it comes to dogs; I'm just a big softy.

I draw the line at putting up the lights on the house, not only because I have a very healthy respect for electricity, but because after last year when the ladder fell and I was hanging by the palm fronds with electrical lights wrapped around my ankles, and my husband was off playing tennis, I was faced with the decision to jump down and break a leg, or scream for the Fire Department or Lighthouse Point Police, only one block away. With my operatic voice I am sure Larry would have heard me in his office and come to my rescue, but I did not relish embracing a uniform and getting the reputation in this town of seeking the attention of younger men, so I dropped painfully to the ground. Either my husband strings the lights up this year, or I will string them around his tennis neck! After all, he has to do something around here to earn his present, and I don't want to hear the words "retired, and now a beach bum."

The nice thing about the festive season is that since I do all the work and cooking, I get to collapse on a vacation after the holiday. My idea of heaven is sitting on the chair lift looking back at the sparkling snow, and teasing my friends from The Miami Ski Club as they swoosh down the moguls, or ski in the trees, or tackle the expert slopes.

Yes, I usually do sing while I ski down the mountain, but it is mostly: "watch out! Didn't you hear me coming? You'd have to be snow blind not to see my pink suit. Give me a break, I'm from Florida, you nut!" Warnings are always better than collisions.

Christmas is definitely an exciting time for me because Easter can be so boring! So I hope all my readers have as much fun as I do at this time of the year. HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Alinka Zyrmont