I’m Rooming with Papa so it Must be Christmas
Santa Clause was the real deal back in my day. He ranked right up there with the belief that those quarters were exchanged for teeth under my pillow by the legendary Tooth Fairy, and that my Easter Basket was left on the front porch each year by a rabbit. As I child, I clung to those beliefs, and I would argue until I was blue in the face if you said they weren’t real. How else can you explain that Santa knew exactly what day Christmas came on, and that the Tooth Fairy knew when I lost a tooth and put it under my pillow? I do believe some teeth were worth more than a quarter, but I guess that was the going rate. What did he do with all those teeth? That big rabbit sure stayed busy on Easter morning too, but what did eggs have to do with rabbits? It was a wonderfully magical time to be a kid, so why look a gift horse in the mouth. I still don’t know what that saying means.
Believing in Santa did come with its challenges. How come every department store had a Santa? How could he possibly be in so many places at the same time or could arrive at that next location just ahead of me, and he didn’t always look exactly the same either? Simple explained my folks; Santa’s helpers. At Christmas he couldn’t be every where, so he had helpers to assist him in collecting that valuable information; the kid’s name and what they wanted. It made perfectly good sense to me. I so believed it, that one visit to one helper was all it took for me. I only question, was it the real Santa Clause or Memorex, and did he really check that list twice to see who was naughty or nice? How many times did I show up on the bad list? I don’t remember ever receiving that bag of coal. Just how did all these helpers cross reference the lists to make sure everyone was accounted for?
Okay, so we know Santa lives at the North Pole, but where does the Tooth Fairy call home? And what about the rabbit and how does he carry all those baskets? Santa has a sleigh, The Tooth Fairy has wings, but what does old Peter Cotton Tail have? Oh yeah, is the Sand Man a distant relative of the Tooth Fairy? What’s the difference in elves and those dwarfs that hung out with Sleep Beauty? So many questions and not nearly enough answers.
Parents can be so cruel. Christmas for many years I had to wait until all my grandparents arrived before I could see what Santa brought me. They kept the doorways closed to the Christmas tree in the living room, so I couldn’t even sneak a peek. My grandparents didn’t seem to share the same urgency in arriving as did I. I had two grannies and one papa, but it certainly felt like more when I was confined to the front room waiting for the bus to arrive. What’s the point in getting up at the crack of dawn if you have to play the waiting game? I could have slept in.
A year or so later I don’t know who came up with this wonderful idea of granny and papa doing a sleep over on Christmas Eve. First of all it meant I was kicked out of my single bed to provide granny a place to sleep. I had to share the couch hideaway bed in the den with papa, which insured I remained captive, and far away from the living room and the Christmas tree. Did I mention how papa snores? And I still had to wait for my other granny to arrive, so what did this new sleeping arrangement really buy me except a bed buddy and change of scenery; neither of which were on my Christmas list?
Judgment time; finally all the likely suspects arrive and the doors open for business. I’m allowed to see what Santa actually left me under the tree, and I soon I forget about all the circumstances and inconveniences leading up to that very special moment; at least until next year. Fire up my favorite Christmas song, All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth, and I’m moved by the holiday spirit. Crashing through the dining room door, my gateway to the living room, there under the tree is my very first rocking horse, a Roy Rogers sing along guitar, boots and authentic sounding air rifle, and my very own Howdy Doody ventriloquist doll, and me sporting my footed pajamas with the signature rear flap; a trend setter I am.
For the next few years we had to play out this same scene, just like in that Bill Murray movie Ground Hog Day, wake up, torment me with the waiting, and finally allow me to collect my booty. That was all about to change and my world was about to come crashing down around my feet. Just a few short weeks before Christmas and while visiting my Papa and Granny, I was rolling around on their bedroom floor, playing with our pet dog, when I skirted underneath the bed. I came face to face with a boxed up race car track. Not wanting to spoil the surprise for my grandparents, I played dumb, figuring that’s what they had bought me for Christmas. The surprise was on me when this ended up under my Christmas tree, supposedly left by Santa. I don’t remember Papa or Granny filling in as Santa’s helpers, but possibly they were volunteers. Papa had the belly for it. No, something was badly wrong with this scenario. I was one devastated kid, if truth be told.
I eventually confessed to my folks, that I had discovered that very package weeks earlier concealed under my grandparents bed. Their explanation; Santa had dropped it off early. The following year, with my perception of Santa’s existence now shattered, my folks decided to allow me to receive and open all my gifts on Christmas Eve at my grandparent’s house instead of Christmas morning. Without any of us actually admitting Santa’s involvement, a new tradition had been born. I no longer had to be confined in a holding room on Christmas morning.
On my thirteenth Christmas, Billy, my thirteen year old cousin and next door neighbor, received a three speed bike, the first in our little world. Up until then our bikes had been one speed, as fast as we could peddle them. Both jealous and envious, I eventually coerced Billy into letting me have a turn riding the new fangled bicycle. Reluctantly he relinquished possession and allowed me to give it a spin, while he followed on my old antique.
Barreling down the long sidewalk in front of Langley Milliken grammar school, I giggled like a little girl, zooming at top speeds never ever experienced previously on our conventional banana-seat bikes. The paved sidewalk ends abruptly at the intersection, requiring the biker to slow down and take an extreme right turn onto a dirt path or end up in a deep ditch. We’ve often played chicken with that ditch, veering right at the last minute. As I approached, I reversed the pedals with my feet to brake for my turn. The pedals simply spun backwards, and I drove nose first into the ditch. Emerging bloodied and bruised and with the Christmas bike sporting a badly bent and warped front wheel, Billy’s only concern and comment, why didn’t you use the hand brakes, you moron? Hand brakes I asked? That completed my last ride on the Christmas three speed, and I to deal with one very pissed off cousin, a specimen twice my size.
Fast forwarding to Christmas with the grand boys, some things don’t really change. Before moving to the beach where the clan reside, we would spend Christmas Eve with my parents then hustle 4 ½ hours to spend the night with the grand’s, so we would be there Christmas morning to witness them being surprised by Santa. Unlike my parents with me, they were allowed to enter the den harboring the Christmas tree as they woke from their slumber.
After cookies and milk were left for old Saint Nick, and the boys were sent packing, I covertly designed sleigh marks across the yard accompanied by an abundance of reindeer tracks. I deer hunted so knew exactly how to fabricate authentic looking deer tracks. To set-up the illusion, the grand boys and I would scatter magical rain deer dust to attract them to the house. I would follow that very exact trail to the patio to provide evidence that the magic worked to perfection. Inside I would turn over several items around the fire place to indicate Santa’s clumsy arrival down the chimney. It worked like a charm. The milk and cookies would be gone, leaving just a few crumbs and one last swallow of milk. I’m not sure if the real Santa appreciated this joke.
Both have outgrown Santa but in our hearts we all still wish to believe. Sugar plumbs dancing in ones head have been replaced with songs on an IPOD. The Tooth Fairy now slides a buck under the pillow; inflation I suppose. The Easter Bunny no longer leaves baskets on the porch. Political corrective-ness has all but destroyed what was once sacred. Looking back now, waiting for my grandparents to arrive and sleeping with a snoring Papa, wasn’t so bad after all.
