Christmas Memory
Dec. 23rd, 2007 03:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
loracsIt was 1967 and I was 10 years old. Santa was as real to me as my mother and father. I knew what he looked like, I knew how he spoke and I knew he spent the year tracking kid’s behavior and making toys. He lived in the North Pole with his wife and helper elves. He ate the chocolate chip cookies and milk I left for him every Christmas Eve; the reindeer ate the carrots. This I knew.
By the age of 11, I’d begun to experience how large the world really was. As a family, we took a train ride to see Uncle Ervin in California. It took 3 days to go 2000 miles. In school I learned to travel all the way around the earth was about 25,000 miles. Even if you don’t account for the time it takes him to drop off the presents, even if you accept he could go faster than a train and maybe even an airplane, the math for an overnight delivery was looking mighty shaky. I’d already accepted his use of magic, after all there’s nothing aerodynamic about reindeers, but somehow I expected the rest of his story to be straightforward, i.e. magic free. This was my waffle year; logic fought with my ardent wish to believe Santa was real and adults never lied.
Christmas Eve was the extended family get-together. For most of my childhood, Mom and Aunt Emma alternated hosting this night. This year it was at Aunt Emma & Uncle Frank’s home. They lived in a 2 story house; upstairs was an apartment they rented out. When you came in the front door, there was a small alcove. Here was a bookcase with lots of old hardcover books; many of them condensed Reader’s Digests. The year before, I was content to play with my younger nieces (ages 4 and 5) and boy cousins; Aunt Emma always had the Lincoln Logs and Mr. Potato Head ready for us. This year I waved off the kids and sat on the steps leading up to the apartment and read a book by the dim bulb in the entrance area. When I finally got too cold to stay there, I went back into the main house. I briefly considered joining the kids, but the enticing smells, warmth and especially the buzz of adult talk drew me to the kitchen. I distinctly remember wanting to be part of the conversation, not just the “fly on the wall” trying to hear something I shouldn’t. Of course, if the adults were really talking about “adult” things, they changed the subject or switched to Italian when they saw me.
Unfortunately, even thought I wanted to be included in the grown-up’s life, often I found it boring. Just as I was about go back to the front room and see what the kids were doing, their father John arrived. Snowflakes melted on his dark hair and the smell of new fallen snow swirled around him. With the perfect level of excitement in his voice, he said he heard on the radio that U.S. weather radar was tracking a UFO; they weren’t sure but it might be sleight shaped. What did we think it might be? “It’s Santa, it’s Santa” the girls shrieked. “Maybe” their father replied. They kept insisting until he agreed it had to be Santa. All my doubts vanished with this announcement. Radar “saw” Santa. John sounded so convincing. For this moment, for this night, I believed again. I knew there would be presents waiting for me in the morning and only one person could have left them there.
By the next Christmas, logic prevailed. I knew Santa was a myth. I knew Mom bought and wrapped the presents. I knew Mom ate the cookie and milk and put the carrots back in the fridge. I became part of the adult Santa conspiracy, with a wink behind my nieces backs, as we assured them Santa knew what they wanted. A little magic had left my life.
By the age of 11, I’d begun to experience how large the world really was. As a family, we took a train ride to see Uncle Ervin in California. It took 3 days to go 2000 miles. In school I learned to travel all the way around the earth was about 25,000 miles. Even if you don’t account for the time it takes him to drop off the presents, even if you accept he could go faster than a train and maybe even an airplane, the math for an overnight delivery was looking mighty shaky. I’d already accepted his use of magic, after all there’s nothing aerodynamic about reindeers, but somehow I expected the rest of his story to be straightforward, i.e. magic free. This was my waffle year; logic fought with my ardent wish to believe Santa was real and adults never lied.
Christmas Eve was the extended family get-together. For most of my childhood, Mom and Aunt Emma alternated hosting this night. This year it was at Aunt Emma & Uncle Frank’s home. They lived in a 2 story house; upstairs was an apartment they rented out. When you came in the front door, there was a small alcove. Here was a bookcase with lots of old hardcover books; many of them condensed Reader’s Digests. The year before, I was content to play with my younger nieces (ages 4 and 5) and boy cousins; Aunt Emma always had the Lincoln Logs and Mr. Potato Head ready for us. This year I waved off the kids and sat on the steps leading up to the apartment and read a book by the dim bulb in the entrance area. When I finally got too cold to stay there, I went back into the main house. I briefly considered joining the kids, but the enticing smells, warmth and especially the buzz of adult talk drew me to the kitchen. I distinctly remember wanting to be part of the conversation, not just the “fly on the wall” trying to hear something I shouldn’t. Of course, if the adults were really talking about “adult” things, they changed the subject or switched to Italian when they saw me.
Unfortunately, even thought I wanted to be included in the grown-up’s life, often I found it boring. Just as I was about go back to the front room and see what the kids were doing, their father John arrived. Snowflakes melted on his dark hair and the smell of new fallen snow swirled around him. With the perfect level of excitement in his voice, he said he heard on the radio that U.S. weather radar was tracking a UFO; they weren’t sure but it might be sleight shaped. What did we think it might be? “It’s Santa, it’s Santa” the girls shrieked. “Maybe” their father replied. They kept insisting until he agreed it had to be Santa. All my doubts vanished with this announcement. Radar “saw” Santa. John sounded so convincing. For this moment, for this night, I believed again. I knew there would be presents waiting for me in the morning and only one person could have left them there.
By the next Christmas, logic prevailed. I knew Santa was a myth. I knew Mom bought and wrapped the presents. I knew Mom ate the cookie and milk and put the carrots back in the fridge. I became part of the adult Santa conspiracy, with a wink behind my nieces backs, as we assured them Santa knew what they wanted. A little magic had left my life.
tRZOWKjdlEW
Date: 2011-06-08 04:11 am (UTC)