Most people in my life know this story. It is commonly referred to as "the time I gnawed my panties off" story. I alluded to it in one of my blog posts when Mom, Dad and I were vacationing in Door County and I was about to poop my pants.

The moment I am about to impart has left an indelible impression upon my heart and my psyche. Much of the reason this moment is ineradicable is that it entails an auditory and visual mix of stimuli that is, plainly, unforgettable, but also because it wasn't just my physical senses that responded to its happening; it was something deep within my DNA that resonated nostalgically, as if rippling throughout ages past.

Every December when I return home to celebrate the birth of the baby Jewish boy born in a manger to a woman and a man who've supposedly never consummated their marriage, I encounter an equally balanced amount of piety and frivolity. My trips home are forever laden with moments that entail belly-laughter as well as incredulous bewilderment, most of which stem from interactions with my father.