Last Wednesday, Consumer Reports reported that consumers haven't finished their shopping. Why, one in five hadn't started.

Some of these people are procrastinators. They're sitting in front of their computers right now in a sweat because Amazon doesn't offer same-day afternoon delivery. If Amazon did offer this service, they would wait until 11:36 a.m. to start shopping. Hey, plenty of time.

Others are waiting to squeeze the last possible bargain out of desperate retailers; they want to stand over a groveling salesclerk, holding aloft a 20, shouting, "BEG FOR IT! BEG!"

Some grumps haven't shopped because they don't believe in giving people a bunch of useless stuff they'll just throw away. (Apparently the idea of giving something practical they'll keep for a long time never occurs.) But maybe some put it off because they like to shop on Christmas Eve. I do. Why? Tradition. You do something two years in a row, and it's tradition.

In the olden tymes, traditions were more elaborate, because they had time. Why, Ma used to get out her knitting needles and make a log for the fireplace out of dog fur and tar, while Pa would get out his whittlin' knife and carve the gospels -- in the original Aramaic -- into an ax handle he'd use to cut down a tree. Then the kids would make popcorn, first removing the kernels individually from the cob with an awl, then they'd go out back to the smelting equipment and forge a pan for the poppin'. Took us almost three weeks, and it did make Christmas drag a bit, but nothing said Christmas like the smell of Ma's dog-log and sound of Dad snoring as he sat in his chair, having fallen asleep while he carved Luke. We'd tease him the next day about it. 'Course, by then it was February, and we had to get a head start on preparations for Labor Day. To this day when I see an ax handle half-covered with scripture, I think of Pa.

Nowadays, traditions are less labor-intensive but no less important. For example, we have Swedish meatballs on Christmas Eve. I have no idea why, except that's what we did when I was growing up. (The "Swedish" aspect consists of a careful process by which all flavor is avoided.) We have eggnog, although we debate whether we should just stir up some butter and tub spackle and inject it directly into the heart muscle; saves time. Because the tree is artificial -- I prefer the term "Fir Android" -- I spray the room with evergreen-scented aerosol, and the dog sneezes and gives me a look: Hey, boss, you see this nose I got? You just did the equivalent of blowing an air horn 2 inches from someone's ear.

Some traditions are private. On Christmas Eve, after everyone's asleep, I wrap the last few presents while I watch "It's a Wonderful Life," thinking, y'know, one night in Potterville might be fun. You eat the cookies the kid put out for Santa. If it's the year you know she stopped believing in Santa but didn't have the heart to tell you, you get that pang, right here. You can barely remember believing yourself. Then you go upstairs and turn on the computer and call up the NORAD site that tracks Santa.

My dad's tradition: He always swung by Johnson's Drug on Christmas Eve to pick up a box of Russell Stover -- or so I recall. Whether he did it twice or 10 times doesn't matter; there's a fertile swath in childhood when these seeds take root, a few years when Christmas is defined. When you think back it's always a song, a dish, a certain decoration, a mood both giddy and solemn.

It's rarely a gift. What child remembers what they got when they were 10? The gift is the day, and the traditions are what you want them to be, silly and sublime.

Every year we put the antler ears on the dog, and every year he shakes them off. This year they stayed on longer. He's resigned. He's 16 years old. But he'll still walk a mile if you wave the leash, and come tonight he will be whining for a Swedish meatball. I will say no, because it might develop into a bad begging habit when he's 17. Someone else slips him one, of course. We might all have different traditions, but making someone else happy is one we all share.

And on that note of columnist-strength profundity: Merry Christmas!

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/popcrush.