God Bless Us, Everyone

 

Not my house.

Not my house, either.  But closer.

    Christmas was always a big deal at my house.

    Starting immediately after Thanksgiving, we began the run up to the most wonderful time of the year, not counting the last day of school.

    And started to feel sorry for the Jewish kids. 

"Yeah, but we get eight days of Hanukkah while you only get one for Christmas.
And still get two weeks off from school.
So, ya'll can suck it."

    As much fun as getting ready for Christmas was, December 25th was actually what we were all waiting for.

    As 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 its uber-classy color wheel.

Now with all the primary colors!  Plus green!

    OK, we bought into the whole Santa thing.  Then again, we 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 fart noises under our armpits.

    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 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.

    Reassured, I happily closed my eyes.

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

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

"Ho, ho, ho.  Is that so hard to believe?"

    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!”

    Thus admonished, we nervously 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.

Photo for entertainment purposes only.
We weren't nearly this in control.
Neither were we black.
We still aren't.

    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 petri dishes disguised as holy water fonts?

    Despite the fact that AOC makes more appearances at Mensa meetings than the Penwassers at Mass, we were “going, goddammit!”  So, after exchanging footie pajamas for swanky “Dad N Lad” ensembles and hideous frocks of a color not found in nature, off we sped in the family Batmobile to church.

     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, and the obligatory offering for starving Vietnamese orphans.  “The ones who aren’t Commies,” Father Karl sternly added.  That was about it.  Oh, and one of my brothers needed the Heimlich maneuver to get that communion wafer out of his throat. 

And hippies.  The little Baby Jesus hated hippies.

    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.  For instance, 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.

Now with Kung Fu grip!

    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 only see one other time:  Thanksgiving.

For instance, I can't imagine Egg Nog Keggers at the 4th of July picnic.

    When presented a choice of turnips, squash, candied yams, deviled eggs, cranberry sauce (always from the can), marzipan, sweet potato souffle, the horrifying blood pudding, mincemeat pie, and the ubiquitous fruitcake, we usually preferred white meat and Hungry Jack mashed potatoes.

To say nothing of marshmallow snowmen.

   

"You're not the kind of fruitcake he's talking about."

    After which, we flung dinner rolls at my sister and the dog, Duke IV.

    Sufficiently gorged, we retired to the living room to strap Barbie to “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 stepped on one of our pointed wooden arrows.

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

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

"Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, one and all. 
No joke!"