So here is Christmas, and I am recalling a time long ago
when we used the broomstick to open the basement storage room door hook and eye
closure to explore. We discovered more
than we bargained for in that room.
Under the bed where Dad slept at odd times, probably because he was in
the doghouse. I imagine this, because it
could be quite damp down there, and one would otherwise not voluntarily sleep
in the room. We found a treasure trove
of gifts, which led me to a single, bittersweet conclusion. Santa Claus is not real! He was, in fact, my parents.
At the same time, I was so very pleased to find a cookie
book of recipes and a cookie press, a deluxe version of scrabble, a ski hat and
gloves, and a rock hammer and bag. My
brothers found treasures on their Christmas lists. We hurriedly scuffled the booty back under
the bed before Mother pulled into the driveway, swung from a rope tied to a
rafter on the other side of the room a few times and exited, Lin standing on
Dan’s shoulders to replace the hook in the eye, and erasing all evidence that
we had ever been there.
My brother Dan has no guile.
He has always been a follower. A
sheep. So we told him what to say and
do. Until the guilt overcame him. He cried.
And he told Mother how sorry he was about there being no Santa Claus.
And her fury came down upon me and Lin like a tornado. She dragged us into that room and watched us
wrap those gifts for local homeless children.
She packed us into the car crying and drove us to the shelter where we
gave away our precious gifts! I have
never felt so humiliated or confused in my life since. I am convinced this experience made me
disaster proof for later crises. When bad
things happen, my blood pressure drops, my heart rate slows, time moves
differently, and I feel little of
anything, thanks to mother and the Santa Claus crisis of years ago. While others panic, I calmly watch in
superior fascination. I bet I would fail
a psychopath test.
We drove home in silence.
Faces crusty and a bit dirty with dried tears. All the time wondering what would happen on
Christmas morning.
We had Christmas Eve with Grandma. The dinner was marvelous. And we opened clean new pajamas. I imagine for the photographs of our sad
faces. In the morning under the tree
were three gigantic lumps of coal. But
under the couch cushions were wrapped gifts!
New gifts. Things not on our
lists. My Dad had convinced Mother that
ruining Christmas because we were curious, unsupervised twits was out of the
question. We learned a hard lesson, but
a good one. And somewhere, maybe a girl
with no home, was reading cookie recipes and dreaming of making them
sometime. Erstwhile, I was wearing ski
mittens, not gloves, on the slopes with
my Dad, who insisted I have fun anyway.
