God Bless Us Everyone

 The following is a true story (as far as you know)...

    Christmas was always a big deal at my house.

"Wait!  That's the Lynch house!  Wave off!  WAVE OFF!!"

    Starting immediately after Thanksgiving, we began the big run up to the most wonderful time of the year, not counting Flag Day. 

"Hey, once the kid falls asleep, how about I see if I could scrounge up a couple ham sandwiches?  Oh no, it's totally cool.  We're Catholics now."

    

    As much fun as the run-up to Christmas was, it was on the actual day that the real hoopla began.

    When the clock struck nine on Christmas Eve, our parents scooted us off to bed.  Warned to stay there all night, we were cautioned not to surprise Santa as he placed gifts under our aluminum Christmas tree.  With our classy color wheel.

"Now with three of the four primary colors! 
Plus green!"

    OK, so we bought the lie.  We also believed in the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy.

And that a nun could fly.

    We tossed and turned all evening.  To pass the time, we mortified our sister by making armpit fart noises.

    As midnight approached, we heard the sound of movement downstairs.  Instantly calling a halt to the armpit symphony, we strained to hear what was happening.

    “Santa’s here!” my brother Gary gasped.

    Straining my ears, I heard the muffled sound of rustling paper.  Even so, I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on.  It was only when I heard a sharp bang followed by a string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill that I knew the magic of Christmas had arrived.

The Myth

The Reality
"Hmm, I wonder if the fat kid will notice his Schwinn
only has one wheel. 
Meh, I'll tell him it's a unicycle."

    Reassured, I happily closed my eyes.

    What seemed like seconds later, I was rudely awakened.  “C’mon,” Gary excitedly cried, “Santa Claus came last night!”

Yeah, that would
have been pretty unbelievable.

    

   He seemed genuinely surprised.  Where had
he been all these weeks?  Of course Santa Claus came last night!  Who’d he expect, Nixon?

    

    We bounded downstairs to a dazzling rainbow of presents beneath our garish tin pole.  Quickly diving into the pile, we were brought up short by a shrill, “Nobody opens anything until your father and I get there!”

For some reason, my parents weren't impressed by my, "That's it?" 
NOTE:  Congratulations to those sharp-eyed readers who noticed
that I said we had an aluminum tree.  Get off my back.

                

    Thus admonished, we anxiously perched on the edge of our avocado and gold couch.  It seemed an eternity until our parents trudged like zombies into the living room.

    Coming out of her narcoleptic daze, Mom gushed, “Wow!  What happened?  Did Santa come?”  (Amazingly, she sounded as shocked as
my brother.  What was it with these people?  Did they all have brain damage?).

    Oblivious to her amazement, my father silently nodded.

    Instantly responding, we dove under the tree in a giddy paroxysm of joy.  We were a brood possessed, we were seized with the spirit, we were seagulls descending on a box of French Fries.  

    After we had torn open our presents, our parents announced that it was time for church.  After all, what says Christmas more than sitting uncomfortably on wooden pews and splashing each other in the face with water from the petri dishes disguised as holy water fonts?

    Despite the fact that Joe Biden makes more appearances at Sniffers Anonymous than my family at Mass, we were “going, goddammit!” 

    So, after exchanging footie pajamas forswanky “Dad N Lad” ensembles and hideous frocks of a color not found in nature, off we sped in the family Batmobile to Saint Stanislaus. 

Canary yellow Ford LTD
Country Squire Station Wagon
with Faux Wood Side Paneling Batmoblile,
thank you very much.

    Upon arrival-five minutes late-my father ushered us into the very last pew.  “That way,” he whispered, “we can beat the traffic.” 

    The service was tolerable.  There were a bunch of mumbled carols, a Christmas sermon about how Baby Jesus didn’t get coal, and the obligatory offering for starving Chinese kids.  “The ones who weren’t Commies,” Father Karl sternly added.  That was about it.  Oh, and Phil needed the Heimlich maneuver to get that communion wafer out of his throat.

Plus, Karen wasn't too happy when Phil and I farted in the pew.  Thus, making a joyful noise unto the Lord.

 NOTE:  Yes, I wrote "pew."  You're welcome.

    Before you could say “Dominus Nabisco,” we were knocking down old Slovak ladies to get out the door.

Although I think the one in the middle
put a gypsy curse on us.

    Once home, we joyfully returned to our toys, although now we wanted to see how creative we could get.  Surprisingly, G.I. Joe didn’t fare too well in the Vietcong EZ Bake Oven.  We also discovered that, if you removed the rubber suction cups, toy arrows sharpen up real nice.

With Kung Fu grip.  Naturally.

    Meanwhile, Mom merrily prepared the “Holiday Feast.”  The star of the show was, of course, the turkey, which had been mummifying in the oven the past two days.  Its aroma filled the house with flavor and its burning grease flooded the kitchen with smoke. 

    Besides the turkey, dinner featured food you’d never see any other time of year.  For instance, I can’t imagine any egg nog keggers at a Fourth of July picnic.

    When presented a choice of turnips, squash, candied yams, egg nog, deviled eggs,
cranberry sauce (always from the can), marzipan, sweet potato souffle with mini-marshmallows, mincemeat pie, and the ubiquitous fruitcake, we usually preferred white meat, Hungry Jack potatoes, and marshmallow snowmen.

There was also blood pudding. 
In case Dracula stopped by, I guess.

    After which, we flung dinner rolls at Karen and the dog.

    Sufficiently gorged, we retired to the living room to strap Karen’s Barbie to the aluminum tree's “Revolving Color Wheel of Death” while Mom hosed down the dining room.  Dad, on the other hand, attired in his festive tee shirt and tighty-whiteys, plopped in front of the television and scratched his back with a fork.

    As afternoon dragged toward evening, our eyelids grew heavy.  Our early morning rampage had finally caught up with us and, chocolate-fueled frenzy notwithstanding, we were sliding closer to sleep.

    Through lidded eyes, I remember my father lurching toward the kitchen.  Before I lapsed into a food coma, I heard a faint, “Boy, I sure could use a turkey sandwich with Miracle Whip.”

    Followed by a harsh string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill as he found one of our pointed wooden arrows.

    “Hey,” Gary mumbled as he drifted off to sleep, “Santa’s back.”

    Let’s see Kwanzaa match those kind of holiday memories.