By the time you read this, I'll be back from a Christmas trip to Denver to visit my sainted Mom and my noble sister, Mic. Frankly, while we hope for the best, it was probably a good idea to schedule the visit sooner rather than later.

Mom's almost 93 and in not-great health. I hope, of course, that we have many more holiday seasons together, but only if she wants to be here. She's in a lot of pain, often confused, and occasionally frightened. At the same time, it's not all bad. Mom still enjoys a nightly glass of Bouchant with her coffee, Popeye's chicken — at this point, we're happy she has ANY appetite — and watching reruns of "Law and Order" and "Mike & Molly."

Y'know, reflecting on the season, I could always count on Mom to give serious consideration to my typically ridiculous Christmas gift requests — items that caused Santa and my father to snort in derision. Here are a few items that, over the years, I found under the tree — and the Mom Unit was without question responsible. In chronological order:

1. A fake polar bear rug. It was a cheap replica of something you'd have found in front of a rich person's fireplace. I would lay on it and listen to "Fresh Cream" and "Are You Experienced?" A few years later, in 1972, a naked Burt Reynolds sprawled across a real bear rug in the pages of Cosmopolitan, and that pretty much ruined it for me. Thanks, Burt.

2. A "gourmet cheese and crackers" assortment I saw in a Montgomery Ward's Christmas catalog. Lending a worldly dimension to my fourth-grade sophistication, I leisurely enjoyed the three or four types of foil-wrapped cheeses — prototypes of Velveeta, I'm sure — emblazoned with fancy logos. Magnifique!  

3. A Fender Mustang bass guitar. If at any point my parents came close to separating or a divorce, it woulda been over this. But Christmas morning — there it was! The same model Glenn Hughes played in Trapeze! Not long after, I flunked out of college. Somehow, it worked out.

4. A three-volume set of Proust's "Remembrance of Things Passed." A few years later, Mom asked if I'd ever read it. I confessed: after 50 pages, with Proust still describing the act of going to sleep, I was done. Mom couldn't stop laughing. I suspect she knew I'd never get through the damned thing. But, by God, it's what her kid wanted for Christmas. And that was good enough for her.

Thanks, Mom. I love you. Merry Christmas. Here, let me pour you a glass of Bouchant. Maybe the "Mike & Molly Holiday Special" is on.