My Father Christmas

My Father Christmas

(Thanks Mavis Moog for the title)

          When I was eight-years-old, the only things I knew about my father were that he worked, he liked to drink Scotch and that he watched TV. Like most children, my perception of anything revolved around the things I’d seen and what my family told me. In addition, like most children, I saw more of my mother than of anyone else. She was the guiding light, the one who helped with a problem, the one to mete out justice when warranted. Except, of course, when special circumstances came about and I was really in trouble, my mom would invoke the “Dad Clause”. The kids in my family never wanted to hear the dread cry, “Wait ‘til your father gets home!” Though, in retrospect, my father came home on many occasions when I was in trouble and the punishment never increased. He had no bearing on the outcome. I didn't learn until later in life that my father’s wrath was but an image created by my mother to keep her many children in line.

         Christmas of 1972 would turn out to be the time my perceptions of my father changed forever. Earlier in the year, my dad had lost his job of fifteen years and had taken a job at a trucking company in order to pay the bills and provide for the family. The only change I saw then was that I only got to see him on the weekends – as he worked afternoons and I was in school during the day. Sometimes, I didn’t even see him on the weekends. To make up for the cut he took in pay, my dad worked all the overtime offered and that always fell on the weekends. Since I had ten siblings, what little time my father did have at home was divided.

         Christmas was a big event at my house. The family always went out two-weeks before to pick our tree, then we waited a day to decorate it, because my dad’s job was to hang the lights and that never took him less than a day to do. Once the lights were up, the family would gather together to hang ornaments. My mom sat on the couch, my dad by her side as the kids lined up from youngest to oldest to receive their ornaments. Each kid had their favorite and my parents did well to remember who got what. My favorite was the head of a snowman wearing a green, elf hat. I’m told that he was actually a whole snowman at one point in his life, but years of handling by kids under ten had reduced his stature dramatically. I also learned later that he had a brother who wore a red hat, but I never saw him - only the legend remained. Regardless, the snowman head was my favorite and I hung him on the tree every holiday season.

         On Christmas Eve, my family went to bed much later than on most other nights. The kids were abuzz with the thoughts of Christmas and would refuse to sleep, despite my parents warnings that Santa wouldn’t come while we were awake. The chatter of excitement was reduced to hushed whispers as we lie in our beds, waiting. One of my older sisters would always say that Christmas would come faster if we’d just close our eyes and sleep, but we weren’t buying it. With each tick of the clock our hearts raced. The slightest sounds brought more whispers about Santa, but were answered only by my mom calling upstairs for us to go to sleep. When exhaustion finally took it’s toll, we slept and Santa did his job in the still of the night.

         “Wake up,” my older brother whispered. “Santa came!”

         “What did I get?” I answered back.

         “I don’t know, let’s go downstairs!”

         We jumped out of the bed we shared and woke my younger sister. “Santa came! Santa came! Come on!”

         Flying downstairs, our sister in hot pursuit, we made a beeline for the tree and the bounty stashed beneath. We expected to find the tagged, but unwrapped presents from Santa (he never wrapped his presents) among the wrapped packages that were gifts among the family or were destined for other houses. We stopped dead in our tracks a few feet from the tree and stared in silence at what lay beneath; a jumbo-set of wooden blocks and a “Fisher-Price Parking Garage” play set along with a note that read “For all the Lafferty kids to share. Love, Santa.”

         “Where’s my stuff?” my sister asked. “Who’s is that?”

         “It’s all of ours,” my brother responded.

         “Nuh-uh, I’m going to ask Mom.” She said, running toward my parents’ bedroom.

         My brother and I looked at each other, then knelt beside the gifts and started playing. We set up buildings and raced the cars between them and into them. We cranked the elevator to the top and let the cars race down the ramp of the garage. We played for about an hour before we heard the call for breakfast. Dropping our toys, my brother and I ran to the kitchen and sat at the table. My little sister was already eating, sitting on a bench at the counter near the stove where one of my older sisters was scrambling eggs.

         “Did you two wash your hands?” My older sister asked.

         Before we could answer, she said, “Go wash them.”

         “Kitchen sink!” My brother called out, knowing that less travel time for something as pointless as hand washing meant quicker food intake. I got up from my spot and walked around the corner and down the hall to the bathroom. The door was closed, which meant someone was in there already. The door to my parents’ room was open. I walked in, but stopped in the doorway when I saw them sitting on the bed, hugging. My mom’s back was to the door, my dad’s face buried in her shoulder.

         “Breakfast is ready,” I said.

         “We know, we’ll be right in,” my mom answered. “Did you wash your hands?”

         “Someone’s in there.”

         “It's probably Jerry washing his hands, just wait for him to finish.”

         “Did you see what Santa brought?” I asked.

         “Yes, your sister told us.” My mom replied. “Why don’t you go eat?”

         “O.K.” I said, turning toward the door. My dad broke their embrace and looked up, thinking I’d left the room. I saw his eyes swollen and red.

         “Are you O.K. Daddy?” I asked.

         “Yeah, I’m just tired,” he said.

         “Your father had to work late last night,” my mom offered.

         My dad stood up with a stretch and said, “Come on, let’s go eat.” He stroked his eye with one finger and placed his left hand on my head as he passed me and walked out of the room.

         I walked over to where my mom sat on the bed and asked her why my dad was crying. She responded only with a hug that seemed to last forever. It was then I realized for the first time that Santa Claus was actually my dad. I thought about how bad he must have felt for not being able to fulfill the fantasies of his children, if only in his own eyes. I hugged my mom back and said nothing of what I thought. I didn’t know what to say.

         After a few moments, I broke the silence with: “The stuff Santa brought is really cool. You should come see.”

         “I love you, Sweetie,” she replied.

         “I love you too.”

         “Let’s go eat,” my mom said. “After breakfast, you can show me what Santa brought.”

         She stood and we walked together to the kitchen, where the rest of my family was already having breakfast. My mom and I took our usual places around the table and began to eat. She looked over at me and smiled. I never did wash my hands.