Помогите с переводом So here it is Christmas again, and old man that I am, with so many of them to remember, I love it with much of my heart. I grew up in a home where management was sharply divided — mother adored it, father h...

Помогите с переводом So here it is Christmas again, and old man that I am, with so many of them to remember, I love it with much of my heart. I grew up in a home where management was sharply divided — mother adored it, father harrumphed and rolled his eyes — so I know both sides. The carols are glorious, a chance to sing in Latin, German, Norwegian, even — if we are brave — Polish (Gdy sie Chrystus rodzi, i na swiat przychodzi). “Messiah” is a mountain for any good choir to climb. “A Christmas Carol” and “The Nutcracker” have filled the coffers of local theaters and dance companies. As an author, I am in favor of book-giving. A box of chocolates is no great compliment to the recipient compared with Plato’s “Republic” or Emily Dickinson or the complete Philip Roth. And if you don’t read them, still they give you something to shoot for. The basic idea of Christmas is a cheerful one: that we are connected to all of creation, the fish, the forests and mountains, the stars, the solar systems, and infinity itself by the love of the Creator who came to Earth in the form of an infant and was first recognized as divine by poor uneducated shepherds and by travelers from afar– a story that endures despite all the tinsel and glitter. You can take the story literally or partially or as metaphor, and it will warm you. A gift from us Christians to all of you Spiritual But Not Religious. To my mother, Christmas was the magical triad of decorating/shopping/baking, and to Dad, it was a wasteful carnival of false piety. They loved each other dearly and their quarrel was a quiet one, but they stuck to their principles. He sighed and shook his head, she beamed and fussed over the wrapping and cooking. It was like having Scrooge and Mrs. Cratchit under one roof. I sat on the living room floor, carefully unwrapping a large odd-shaped thing that turned out to be a miniature garage with gas pumps and a hoist and another one, a printing press with movable rubber type — two careers opening up, auto mechanics or publishing, and my father peered down at them and saw money frittered away, a child indulged, corrupted, launched into a life of waste.