My Best Christmas Ever

I think every kid loves Christmas. I was no different. But while I was growing up I knew no one who was afraid of Santa Claus. No one, that is, but me.

There was no good reason that I could ever figure out then, and to this day I still don't know why he scared me. However, the man in the bright red suit, with that long, white beard, jingled when he walked. That wasn't normal. Even in my childish mind, I knew no one was supposed to jingle as they crunched along the snowy street.

I don't remember at what period in my childhood that I first became aware that Santa existed. I do remember that when I was nine I figured out it was a physical impossibility for one man to stop at every house in the world in a single night. I told mom of my findings and all she did was smile and ask me, "Are you sure about that?" I was a kid. But I got good grades in school. I was sure.

During all those "believing" years I waited in our town square, along with every other kid in our small Minnesota town and its outreaching farmlands, itching for Santa to show up. He was in town one day a year. For a few hours. After that we never saw him again till the following Christmas. So I suspect you're asking yourself why, if I was afraid of him, did I head out to to see the jingly man. The answer is simple. Candy. The forbidden treat mom almost never allowed in the house because it would either rot our teeth or give us diabetes.

But that one day a year, when Santa arrived with a big red sack on his back, every kid for miles around waited for just one thing. No, it wasn't to sit on his lap and say what we wanted for Christmas. It wasn't to have our photo taken with him. None of those things existed in our little town. The reason we followed him from the town square and all around the shopping area was for just one thing. His bag was stuffed with small brown bags filled with Christmas candy. Enough for every kid around.  And for that I braved the cold, the snow, and the jingly man.

Santa aside, I loved everything about the holiday. I loved the Christmas lights strung across main street, diffused into glowing circles by falling snow. Even blizzards wove their magic, keeping us inside, watching the world creep along from our upstairs windows and all the while, tracing with our fingers the etchings left by Jack Frost's midnight visit and always wishing the wonderful works would last the day through.

Long, pointy icicles decorated our roof; snow nearly obliterated the landscape; the house smelled of pine and Gene Autry sang "Here Comes Santa Claus" on our scratchy old record player. My sisters and I wrapped our gifts for mom and dad and hid them where we thought no one would find them. We couldn't buy much. But we always had something. Sometimes a hand print made at school or an ornament for the tree or a potholder woven of strips of old yarn.

We crafted red and green chains out of construction paper and strung popcorn and cranberries on sewing thread, then draped the resultant garlands along the fragrant branches. Our tree shimmered with light, sparkly ornaments, home made goodies, and badly hung tinsel.

We helped  mom make cookies, popcorn balls, fudge, peanut brittle, and watched in amazement as she poured brandy over an entire fruitcake--which we were never allowed to eat. My sisters and I fought over who's turn it was to use the nutcracker and who got to eat the last Swedish rosette and exactly how many pieces of Keekla each one of us had eaten and who should get the last delicate pastry.

The week before Christmas was the busiest of all. My sisters and I were in the church girl's choir and as such, were always part of the Christmas program. Add to that the caroling in our church neighborhood and tap dancing at the local Lion and VFW Clubs' Christmas parties, it was a week only the young could endure with so much enthusiasm.

In addition to that, my sisters and I found time to search the house, snooping through closets, under beds, and even the scary attic, just to see what surprises we might unearth. We never found any of our presents. To this day I have no idea where mom hid them.

When I was eight, all I wanted under the tree was a furry jacket and stadium boots, a sort of cross between today's Ugg's and snow boots. I yearned for nothing else. When mom requested a list, those two things were right at the top, followed by some Nancy Drew books and maybe new crayons and drawing paper.

If my feet were
visible, you'd see
my new boots too.

 It was that Christmas I recall the most clearly. I woke while it was still dark and tip toed into the living room and there they were, under the tree, and not even wrapped. My stadium boots and my furry jacket. I was in heaven. I tried them on and then took them back to bed with me. That's where mom and dad found me in the morning. Still wearing my wonderful presents. It was my best Christmas ever.

In a time when the world
is in chaos, may you find
the abiding peace and
joy that the birth of our
Savior promises.

Stuff I Learned As A Kid--Chapter Two

Thanksgiving was a special day as my mom's parents always came to visit. How we girls looked forward to seeing them. Sometimes dinner consisted of roasted chickens; other times it was venison. One Thanksgiving mom cooked a beef roast, though I never had any clue as to where the meat had come from--and little did I care. Looking back, I figure dad must have traded something with another farmer. I well remember the Thanksgiving we had venison. Grandma was eating up a storm, with seconds on everything, even the meat. I distinctly remember her asking dad where he had gotten the beef and mom telling her it was venison. I also distinctly remember that it was the first time I'd ever seen anyone turn green. Grandma stopped eating after that little disclosure. I was glad. More for us. Do you suppose God will take me to task for my utter selfishness?

Christmas was the highlight of our year. My sister and I never figured we'd have tons of presents under the tree. That wasn't how it worked in those days and since we knew no different, we danced with merriment, tossed tinsel on the tree and thought it was beautiful--even though we knew it wasn't. We strung popcorn on thread and made colored paper chains and adorned the spindly tree with the sad little ornaments we'd made and colored with our crayons. It was all magic. We didn't know to expect toys from Santa. Nobody got toys in those days--at least nobody I knew. What we found under the tree were new snow boots or a warm jacket or flannel pajamas. Things we needed and knew that we needed. It never occurred to my sister and me to pout or throw a tantrum because we had wanted dolls with real hair. Young as I was, I knew those new boots were a far better gift considering how hard Minnesota winters were. Do you suppose any of today's kids would be thrilled to have a single small present under the tree knowing the box held something needed rather than wanted?

Wasting food is a sin. I was never sure if it would send me to jail or not but I was suspicious it could happen. Any food on the plate left uneaten automatically put three irrefutable house rules into effect: no dessert, no snacking because I was hungry, and the leftover food had to be consumed before the next meal could be enjoyed. Our oven had pilot lights, which to my dismay, mom used to keep food warm till the next meal. For the most part, the leftovers weren't all that bad. But the day I had to eat the leftover sunny-side-up egg nearly did me in. I gagged it down, but only barely. There was always that image of jail in my mind. Little as I was, I sure wasn't going there over a decidedly unappetizing egg. Then came the day when I'd just plain put too many carrots on my plate. When it dawned on me that my eyes had been bigger than my stomach, I complained that I couldn't finish them. Mom would have none of it. She reverted to her usual comment that there were children all over the world who were starving and I should eat them then and there. In my ignorance, I asked her where I might find an envelope and a stamp. She questioned as to why and when I told her I was going to mail the carrots to starving kids in another country, I got sent to my room for being sassy. Do you suppose I could file a claim against my parents' estate for cruel and unusual punishment?

Your feet were made for walking. With gasoline rationed, new tires impossible to find or purchase, and replacement auto parts unavailable due to the manufacturers turning to building war machines, our family took to walking everywhere we went. When we did need gasoline, the whole family piled into the car for no better reason than to enjoy the trip to the gas station at the edge of town. I remember that gas was twelve cents a gallon and dad always had to produce enough ration coupons to account for the gallons purchased. I also vividly remember the day we went to buy gas and it had gone up to fifteen cents a gallon and my mom, who seldom raised her voice, had such a verbal fit over the cost that even dad couldn't calm her down. Such was life in those days. We walked to the grocery store, the clothing shops, the hardware store and even our church, a good half mile from home. Should my sister and I wish to visit a friend, we knew it had to be via bicycle. That's just how it was. The good thing was everybody else was walking too and during those war years, I think mom "ran into" more of her friends than she ever had before. I remember it well because my sister and I had to stand there and listen to boring, grown-up chatter while enduring the vice-like grip mom had on our hands. Do you suppose that's the reason my hands are still so small and my fingers so short and stubby?

To be continued.....