When I think back to my youth, there are two very vivid memories of Christmas. The first occurred when I was in the 4th grade. After hearing all kinds of rumors from kids in school, I was starting to doubt the existence of Santa Claus. That year both my younger brother and I got brand new bicycles for Christmas. We were so excited. I said to my brother, “There’s no way Dad could’ve hidden two big bicycles in the house without us knowing. So, that means Santa Claus is real!”
Later that day, we got bundled up and rode our shiny new bikes up and down the street. We met a neighborhood kid, who blurted out, “I saw your father putting those bicycles together in Mr. Barry’s garage the other day!”
I thought for a moment, then turned to my brother and said, “Oh no, do you know what this means about Santa Claus?!”
He replied, “Yeah. It means Santa employs a lot of seasonal sub-contractors!”
And so we continued enjoying our bicycles, confident in the knowledge, which has not waned in the subsequent 50-plus years, that Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick is indeed real.
The other vivid youthful memory about Christmas occurred when I was in high school. At the age of 16, for the first time since I grasped the concept of gifts under the tree, I did not wake up way before sunrise on Christmas morning. My younger siblings were awake at the usual hour of 3:30 a.m., sneaking out to the living room to look at all the goodies left by Santa.
I thought for a moment, then turned to my brother and said, “Oh no, do you know what this means about Santa Claus?!”
He replied, “Yeah. It means Santa employs a lot of seasonal sub-contractors!”
And so we continued enjoying our bicycles, confident in the knowledge, which has not waned in the subsequent 50-plus years, that Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick is indeed real.
The other vivid youthful memory about Christmas occurred when I was in high school. At the age of 16, for the first time since I grasped the concept of gifts under the tree, I did not wake up way before sunrise on Christmas morning. My younger siblings were awake at the usual hour of 3:30 a.m., sneaking out to the living room to look at all the goodies left by Santa.
That was the first time ever, but certainly not the last, that I found myself imitating my dad. “Go back to sleep, dammit,” I muttered to my younger brothers. “The presents aren’t going anywhere!”
As I rolled over and tried to fall back to sleep, a worried voice in my head whispered to me, “Did you just say that? Are you turning into your father?”
When a lad is 16 years old, the absolute last thing he wants to do is behave like his father, even if the ol’ man is a combination of Albert Schweitzer, Mickey Mantle, and Jesus. I suspect this attitude is genetically programmed into every fiber of a teenager’s being. Most teens react to everything their parents say or do with a major league eye-roll, and a vow never to act like their parents when they grow up.
There I was, 16 years old, saying the exact thing my father would’ve said if he had been awakened at 3:30 a.m. on Christmas morning. (Actually, he heard the noise coming from the living room at about 3:35 a.m. His growling version of, “Go back to sleep, dammit! The presents aren’t going anywhere!” was so much more majestic and sonorous than mine. I had a lot to learn.)
I fell back to sleep and did not wake up until almost 7 o’clock. When I shuffled into the living room, my siblings had already opened all their presents. My parents sat bleary-eyed on the couch.
One of my younger brothers looked at me and said, “Hey, it’s Sleeping Beauty.” In reply, instead of throwing something at him, I just smiled. (How can you not smile on Christmas morning, even if you’re a surly teenager?)
As I rolled over and tried to fall back to sleep, a worried voice in my head whispered to me, “Did you just say that? Are you turning into your father?”
When a lad is 16 years old, the absolute last thing he wants to do is behave like his father, even if the ol’ man is a combination of Albert Schweitzer, Mickey Mantle, and Jesus. I suspect this attitude is genetically programmed into every fiber of a teenager’s being. Most teens react to everything their parents say or do with a major league eye-roll, and a vow never to act like their parents when they grow up.
There I was, 16 years old, saying the exact thing my father would’ve said if he had been awakened at 3:30 a.m. on Christmas morning. (Actually, he heard the noise coming from the living room at about 3:35 a.m. His growling version of, “Go back to sleep, dammit! The presents aren’t going anywhere!” was so much more majestic and sonorous than mine. I had a lot to learn.)
I fell back to sleep and did not wake up until almost 7 o’clock. When I shuffled into the living room, my siblings had already opened all their presents. My parents sat bleary-eyed on the couch.
One of my younger brothers looked at me and said, “Hey, it’s Sleeping Beauty.” In reply, instead of throwing something at him, I just smiled. (How can you not smile on Christmas morning, even if you’re a surly teenager?)
That little voice in my head whispered, “Wow, you chose sleep over Christmas presents. You’re not a kid anymore.”
I noticed my wrapped presents waiting for me under the tree. Hours earlier my father and I had been right: the gifts didn’t go anywhere.
I yawned, turned around, and said to no one in particular, “I’m going back to sleep, dammit.”
I noticed my wrapped presents waiting for me under the tree. Hours earlier my father and I had been right: the gifts didn’t go anywhere.
I yawned, turned around, and said to no one in particular, “I’m going back to sleep, dammit.”
No comments:
Post a Comment