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.

Thoughts On Halloween

Today I was wondering when it was that Halloween became so scary. I think what brought it to my mind is the plethora of bloody, gory, terrifying, cover my eyes with my hands shows that are on television right now. Everyone and everything is either dripping blood or drinking blood or drawing blood or carrying around a weapon that will bring forth blood.

As I channel surf I'm disgusted to find even the Food Channel has gotten into the theme. Who can make the most frightening pumpkin face or the most hideous cake monster. The movie channels are full of aliens and monsters and creatures from Black Lagoons. The sit-coms are just as bad, though not quite as frightening to watch.

Now I have to say that I've always hated it when people would say to me, "Well, back in my day...." But as I was searching in vain for something to watch while I knitted and drank steaming hot cocoa, I began to think the same thing. Back in my day.....

My sisters and I didn't dress up like monsters or aliens or ghosts or anything else. We went trick or treating in our regular clothes, as did every other kid we knew. We didn't even wear masks. Halloween was simply the day we got free candy without having to beg mom, who was always under the impression that candy would rot our teeth. There were only two times of the year my sisters and I could eat candy and that was Halloween and Christmas. And it wasn't mom who bought it. We got it from the good-hearted folks around town.

On Halloween night, right after dishes were done, we'd grab a coat and a brown lunch bag and head out. The end of October is chilly in MN, so we went prepared. House to house to house, trudging along with a bunch of our friends, knocking on doors till our brown bag was at least half full. Then my sister and I headed back home where we dumped our treasure onto our beds and began the process of sorting and eating.

We had before us a veritable treasure trove of fresh apples, home made brownies and/or cookies, sometimes home made fudge or caramel, maybe an orange or two, and candy, not always individually wrapped. Mom always said the same thing every year: "Don't eat it all tonight." We seldom followed her advice. The forbidden candy went first, lest mom discover it and confiscate it for our teeth's sake. Then we'd start in on the home made stuff, especially the fudge. Next came the cookies and brownies. We left the fresh fruit till last because we were positive mom wouldn't toss it in the garbage. She hated wasting food.

By the time I had kids in school, the children dressed as ballerinas and clowns and even those who dressed as witches or ghosts or Frankensteins weren't scary. Most carried little plastic pumpkins to put candy in. My kids walked the neighborhood with small brown lunch bags, just as I had. I didn't even go with them. I knew all my neighbors for two streets over. I didn't worry while they were out gathering up goodies enough to give them a stomach ache.

The year my kids decided they were too old for trick or treating I was a happy camper. By now mothers were having to go through every goody bag with a fine tooth comb, looking for hidden needles or razor blades or candy obviously unwrapped and then wrapped again. Those who came to my door were beginning to look monster-like and a few times I hesitated to even open the door. To make things worse, they now carried pillow cases for their candy haul.

The last year I opened my door to trick or treaters was three years ago. By then it wasn't only kids coming around with supposed knives stuck into their skulls or an axe protruding from their chest or green slime running out of their mouth and onto their costume. It was adults. And when I questioned as to why grown ups were trick or treating, the answer I received was "Why not?"

I also noticed something else: those who knocked on my door had become greedy. I could no longer hold out the bowl of candy lest one kid grab it by the handfulls. So I began passing out the candy myself, one piece to each pillowcase. Most kids/adults would say thanks. But more than a few teenagers looked into their bag, looked at me, and asked, "Is that all?"

I think there is something in each of us that likes to be a little bit scared. Personally, I love the Alien movies. I love them because they are science fiction. But dress an adult or tall teenager like Freddie or Mike Meyers or any other truly scary image and knock on someone's door late at night, and I tell you true, your heart can nearly stop beating. I know that because that's what happened to me.

It was the last year I opened the door on Halloween night. All the other trick or treaters were long gone and Jim and I had settled in for the evening. Somewhere around ten o'clock, a knock came at my door. I looked out the peephole and nearly had a heart attack. A lone man, dressed as a fiendish killer, stood on my porch. I pushed the curtain aside so I could look through the window and when I did that, the kid removed his mask and smiled at me. He was the last trick or treater who ever got candy at this house.