Where did holiday seasons get off to?

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

Does anybody know what bloody holiday this is? Last week I attended a pumpkin carving party, and everybody I know is talking about costumes, so I thought we were coming up on Halloween. Then I saw somebody walking out of a local store carrying a fake Christmas tree, a plastic cornucopia, a pumpkin, two chocolate Easter bunnies, a box of fireworks, a neon menorah and a book of all-time favorite Kwanzaa songs written for the clavichord.

Holidays have gone the way of fruits and vegetables, it seems. Remember when produce had seasons? There was strawberry season when you'd gorge on shortcakes and fresh strawberry pies. There was melon season when you'd sit out in the backyard, spitting seeds and listening to baseball on the radio. There was artichoke and asparagus season, just in time for holiday meals. You could tell what time of year it was just by walking through the local produce section or stopping at the nearest flatbed truck selling corn or apples or whatever had actually finished ripening on the right plant at the right time of year.

Now you can find oranges in October, apples in April and something called star fruit pretty much any time you've got $60 to spend on 9 ounces of produce. Of course they all taste like moistened rice cakes, but who cares?

Apparently, the holiday department people got confused when fresh citrus fruit started showing up in January. Rather than consult the Farmer's Almanac, like they should have done, they just panicked and started putting all the cheap, plastic stuff out at once. There's a Christmas section, a Halloween section and a Thanksgiving section in most major stores right now. I'm not kidding. I got home from picking up some cheese the other night and I couldn't decide whether to defrost a turkey or go out and scare some kids. Instead, I stood in front of my neighbor's house singing carols until he winged a potted lily at me. Apparently he doesn't know what holiday it is, either.

I know I'm as guilty as anyone of wishing the Christmas spirit could last all year. I was talking about the smiley-howya-doin' part of the spirit, though. I can't afford the open-your-wallet-and-close-your-eyes part all year.

Let's face it, though, that's what the holiday blur is all about. Retailers and marketers want all of your money all of the time. It wasn't enough to turn Christmas into a mad, materialistic buying frenzy, now they've got to get all the other holidays in the vice. And not just the religious ones, but the political and pagan ones, too. Is nothing sacred?

People are sending Halloween cards to one another. Thanksgiving cards, too. I got a Happy Daylight Saving Time Ends card yesterday. "Do you know what time it is?" the front of the card asked. When I opened the card it said, "Neither does anyone else! Happy Daylight Saving Time Ends Day!" The card was signed, "With all my love, Aunt Minerva." There were two, crisp one-dollar bills in there, too. I used the two bucks to buy some Belated New Moon cards for the people I'd forgotten.

At the market where I shop, there's no more cereal. That aisle and the aisle where they used to keep pickles have been filled with greeting cards and wrapping paper. The toilet paper aisle now overflows with Groundhog Day gifts, and the hair care products have been clipped in favor of Passover paraphernalia. Enough, already.

I say, take it all back. Give me apples in the fall and watermelons in the summer. Give me Christmas in December and Independence Day in July. I don't want Columbus Day cards, and I don't need Happy Birthday to President Lincoln cupcakes. I definitely don't need a plastic pine tree in October, and I never need a 15-foot tall inflatable turkey for my front yard -- and my neighbor doesn't either, even if he thinks he does.

I don't mind having a little fun with the holidays, but what's fun about somebody else Hoovering money out of your pockets and filling your closets, sheds and crawl spaces with things your grandmother would have been embarrassed to own? You can make it stop. You can close your wallet and only buy grapes when Mother Nature intended you to. You don't have to hang that aluminum Santa on your chimney in November.

I'd go on telling you what to do, but I've got to run. I need to buy my Uncle Luigi an April Fool's Day electric sausage. I hear they're flying off the shelves faster than last year's Easter Bunny vs. the Hannukah Chicken video game.

Frank Ameduri wishes somebody would give retailers a calendar.