Christmas is when we embrace how good humans can be

One of the best uses of television ever, I think, came when BBC dramatized the wonderful books of James Herriot, collectively under the title of his first book, "All Creatures Great and Small."

The program was so good that I taped every episode, lest it become unavailable and I have children someday. It was the kind of thing I would want them to watch. I never had children, but it doesn't matter, for I taped the show on a Betamax machine.

Most touching in a series that had many moving moments was the end of a Christmas episode. Events had unfolded such that one was about to cry the sentimental tears of happiness that often accompany Christmas shows. Now, the main characters were headed off to the the midnight service on Christmas Eve and, as they walked, they began to sing the traditional carol, "The Holly and the Ivy." It was too much for me to take and I missed the credits – they were difficult to see through the tears.

I've not heard the song since without a similar reaction, or close to it.

That's because it's only heard around Christmas, and Christmas is the one time each year when we may be entirely, unapologetically, sentimental.

Male humans are supposed to be tough and unemotional, and though we often fail at both, the greatest failure of all is showing sentimental softness. But around Christmas we are given a pass.

I think back to an event 40 years ago or close to it. It was Christmas Eve, and I was the only person in the newspaper office. I turned on the radio and out came the unmistakable voice of Paul Harvey. He told of a department store Santa who worked near a school that taught little deaf children. The man had spent much of the previous year learning sign language, so he could speak with those children and they could have Santa Claus, too. It took me entirely by surprise, and as the story ended I found tough reporter me sitting in the newsroom, tears streaming down my face.

Acts of unselfish goodness ought always to touch us; at Christmas they move us, too.

Something similar happened just last week, when, thinking I ought to learn what all the fuss was about, I read a feature article about the football player Tim Tebow. A nice guy, I thought, not all full of himself. A rarity in that regard alone. But then I got to an anecdote.

Two years ago, it seems, Tebow was attending a reception the night before some sort of athletic awards dinner. He was told that a young woman there, who had undergone surgery for a brain tumor and who suffered from a noticeable tremor and other after-effects, was wearing a button that expressed her admiration for the quarterback. He found her and her family, and they spoke for 45 minutes. Then he asked her if she would like to accompany him to the awards banquet the next night. There is video of them walking down the red carpet together. I looked at it and spent the next few minutes hoping not to be noticed by the other people who were around. It would have been hard to explain the tears.

Actually, it wouldn't have, as long as I had begun with, "C'mon – it's Christmastime."

One year I was celebrating Christmas Eve with my flying partner, Michael DeNigris, and his family. We needed to pop over to my apartment to pick up a camera and, in the elevator with us as we went up was a neighbor of mine, who we both knew was kind of down on his luck. With him were his two little children, a boy and a girl, all bundled up and runny-nosed from having been outside. With one hand he was holding upright the sorriest excuse for a Christmas tree ever. In the other hand was a pizza box. The kids were happy and smiling.

My friend Michael, who is fearless in aviation situations that would paralyze most other pilots, and I got off the elevator, looked at each other, and of course arrived at the same conclusion: The fellow had gone out with his kids for a tree at the last minute, because tree vendors would give steep discounts on whatever was left. For a dollar or two he was able to get that sad little tree. The pizza was probably a rare treat, too.

We tried to tell the story over dinner. It was not possible to get clear through it without tearing up to the point that it was impossible to continue. The others got the gist of it, I think, but even now I can't be sure.

Christmas is like that. It can bring out the best in us. Maybe that's why "happy holidays" is so hollow compared to "merry Christmas!"

Because sometimes when we are moved to tears it's the merriest Christmas of all.

Editor's note: Dennis E. Powell was an award-winning reporter in New York and elsewhere before moving to Ohio and becoming a full-time crackpot. His column appears on Mondays. You can reach him at dep@drippingwithirony.com.