A Christmas Story

I wrote this story for my brothers two Christmasses ago, and I thought I should "re-gift" it this year. Since writing it, Santa has come back into my life after a long hiatus. We're busy making happy Christmas memories for our little guy, and though he won't remember his first Christmas, we will always.

P.S. Aunt Kappi Rocks! The Santa suit (with real plush velour) is to die for!


I am the oldest of three, and so I was the first to come to doubt Santa. But, I do remember the last Christmas that I wanted to believe, and so do my brothers, even now.

In our family, we had a tradition. Christmas eve dinner at the living room coffee table featuring Mom’s once-a-year seafood casserole. Pretty simple really; mayonnaise, heavy cream, buttered bread cubes, chopped boiled eggs, a can of crabmeat, and a fist full of frozen shrimp (we are WASP's, obviously). And, she sprinkled the top with more bread cubes and melted butter, before putting it into the oven (I know, but it was the '70's). We loved it. And, there were side dishes. Chex party mix, chips and dip, popcorn balls, and homemade cookies with M & M stains baked into the dough. Actually, I remember feeling like throwing up on more than a few Christmasses, but I never put it to the Christmas eve dinner (not 'til now, anyway).

Mom was great with decorations too, which went up the day after Thanksgiving. Lots of “arrangements” on all available horizontal surfaces. She got the lingo from selling Home Interiors, Italian baroque injection-molded plastic items (which they cleverly called "syrocco"). She peddled the stuff at home parties (again, it was the '70's). The Christmas “arrangements” consisted of ceramic dancing angel trios balancing votive cups improbably on their heads, plastic mini-garlands wrapped around pillar candles, and tiny (empty) wrapped packages set (precisely) at random among more plastic garland. But, our three Christmas stockings were never part of the "arrangements." They were always held in reserve until Christmas eve.

After dinner, we were allowed to open one present. This was the second part of the tradition. It was always new pajamas. We ripped them open, and then put them on. They were a little scratchy, having come directly from the plastic packaging, but that was just part of the deal. After the ritual pajama opening, it was time to hang the stockings, the third part of the tradition. As the evening drew to a close, we each strategically placed our stockings for maximum impact. And, I gave mine an extra tug, to be sure the weight of the goods wouldn’t pull it to the floor.

Santa was very clever with our stockings. I noticed some kids at school got socks and soap in theirs. Filler. Ours were filled with precious little treasures, and none of them were ever wrapped. He seemed to wrap some kid’s gifts, which initially puzzled me. In our house there was a clear demarcation. Santa’s booty was unwrapped. Mom and Dad’s was wrapped, labeled, and bowed.

By the time I was ten, my brothers were seven and four. That winter at school, I couldn’t avoid hearing that Santa was a scam, and I could see it was probably true. I didn’t let on to my mother, thinking it would only disappoint her, and why interrupt the flow of gifts at this juncture? So, that year after hanging our stockings, we all went off to bed a little on the early side, as usual. In the middle of the night, I woke up and decided to get my brothers up too. I wanted them and all their tingling excitement in my room with me on this last Christmas, when I would rather have believed.

On our way back to my room, one of my brothers whispered, “Do you think he came yet?” We tiptoed to the top of the stairs leading down to the family room (yes, a split-level, I repeat - it was the '70's). The house was dark, and I opened my eyes wide and stared into the black. It was then I saw it. And, they did too at the exact same moment. We bolted to my bedroom without a word. When we were out of earshot of the family room, I asked, “Did you see it? Santa’s hat?” The white pompom on his red hat floated through the deep darkness of the basement family room as clear as day. And, we had all seen it. We lay there in agony, not sure if he had seen us and decided to skip us over that year.

With much debate, we realized we had no choice but to wait until morning. After fitful sleep, mercifully morning came. We got Mom and Dad up at about five (another tradition) and headed for the family room. He had come, and he had left us his beautiful unwrapped booty.

Santa made many more visits to our house, before my youngest brother gave up believing; but none of those visits would ever be as sweet to me or my brothers as the year we saw Santa Claus.