The Follies of Christmas Past

The Follies of Christmas Past

The following is a shocking expose of the childhood Christmases of a Baby Boomer dude.

Santa’s Here … No really!

To a small child no person, place or thing can be larger than life than Santa Claus standing before that child. Such was the case on those Christmas Eves of my youth when a knock on the front door introduced the “ho ho ho” of Santa himself.

“Look, sweetheart, it’s Santa. Say hello to Santa”, my mother would say.

“Hi, Santa.”

“Ho, ho, ho. What a good little boy you are. Tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”

“Everything.”

“Ho, ho, ho” Santa would say while thinking “what a wise ass this kid must be.”

I was maybe seven years old when I asked my mother “mommy, why is Santa visiting our house twice? Why doesn’t he just give me my gifts now and be done with it?” I can’t recall the answer I received but I knew it didn’t make any sense.

I was eight or so when I smelled a rat. I knew Santa could use a few less meals but nobody, not even Mr. Clause, had a gut that huge. The clincher occurred when the imposter set aside his sack, revealing a pint of bourbon peeking from the inside of his pocket. Uncle Erasmus!

Looking back I should have known I had been conned when Uncle Clause patted his knee and told my mother, who was related only through marriage, “ho, ho, ho, hey, little girl, come sit on Santa’s lap and tell Santa what you want for Christmas, ho, ho, ho. Then Santa’s gonna tell you what HE wants for Christmas, HO, HO, HO.”

Ho,ho, ho, indeed.

The Great Milk and Cookies Scam

How my mother knew I was the ripe age to foist the great milk and cookies scam I cannot say. The deceit usually went something like this:

“Honey, it’s your bed time. Santa’s coming tonight.

“I don’t wanna go to bed. I wanna see Santa.”

“Santa won’t come here if you’re not sleeping. I know … lets put out some cookies and milk for Santa. You know he gets hungry delivering all those gifts.

“I don’t care if Santa starves. I just want all the stuff he’s going to give me.”

Mom sighed. “Well, you certainly inherited your father’s sense of humor.”

The next morning I was in awe witnessing an empty plate with a few cookie crumbs on it and a glass with some milk on its lip. Santa’s lips had touched that glass!

One Christmas Eve I became suspicious and crept to the stairway after I had been deposited in my bed. There they were, mom and dad gorging on Santa’s snack. Now I knew the only reason there were crumbs left on the plate was because they were too damn lazy to clean off the dining room table before they hit the sack.

The milk and cookies scam met its Waterloo when a rapscallion uncle, who lived with us for several years, suggested Santa wanted to wet his whistle with something more flamboyant.

“Mommy, are you going to leave Santa milk and cookies?”

“Of course, sweetheart, we do that every year.”

“Santa doesn’t want milk anymore. Mommy, lets leave Santa a bottle of Uncle Elmer’s Schlitz beer.”

That ended the great milk and cookies scam.

The Dreaded Christmas Educational Toy

Christmas morning in the sixties wasn’t complete without the obligatory educational toy. To our parents, nine months of schooling and homework weren’t sufficient to craft us into productive adults; we even had to be indoctrinated when all we wanted was to have some fun.

These toys ranged from cans of Play-Doh, sculpting clay sure to transform us into the next Rodin, erector sets that baffled the mechanically un-inclined, Jon Gnagy drawing kits that should have included tracing paper so we could fool mom, stamp books covering subjects such as world flags, birds, and U.S. presidents that provided many seconds of fun and, for boys, cap guns and rifles that used Greenie Stick-Em Caps that taught us how to kill people.

For little girls in the sixties an expected educational toy was a Hasbro Easy Bake Oven. With a little practice daddy’s little girl could whip up everything from TV dinners to Betty Crocker delights.

“Daddy, daddy, look, I baked some brownies. Just for you!”

“Ummmmm, yum, yum, yum. Honey, these brownies are the best brownies I ever ate. They’re even better than your mommy’s. But don’t tell her that. You know how she gets when I criticize the crappy gravy and that lousy meatloaf she makes. Ummmm, yum, yum, yum.”

“Oh, goody, goody. I’ll go make some more.”

Upon second delivery, dad was nowhere to be seen.

“Mommy, where’s daddy?”

“Sweetie, I don’t know. He just ran out of the house … Honey, what’s wrong?”

“I made daddy some more brownies and he’s not here. Mommy, do you want some?”

‘Oh sweetheart, you know I can’t eat those. They’re for your daddy. You know how crabby he gets if he doesn’t get the dessert he wants.

“I know, I’ll give some to Billy. Goody, goody!”

… “Honey, wait!”

Too late.

My dear ladies, daddy fled the house because he wanted to survive to enjoy his grandkids while your mom refused your little morsels because she wasn’t interested in spending New Year’s Eve in the intensive care unit. Should I even mention the clean up involved after your little brother gorged himself on your “masterpieces”?

Fortunately, there was a silver lining. Your parents lied to you because they loved you so much. They knew if they looked at your innocent face and told you the truth you would have had a nervous breakdown for the rest of your life. So, because they loved you so much they looked at your innocent face and lied.

See, it wasn’t so bad after all.

… And then there was ten year old me. I was a lad jaded decades beyond my years and who could spot the dreaded Christmas educational toy from miles away. I had become adept at subtly sliding THAT toy underneath the tree while attacking the really neat toys I later realized my parents had wasted their money buying. With success nearly at hand my dad, always the dad, would shatter my achievement.

“Son, don’t forget to open the gift you’re trying to hide under the Christmas tree.”

I suppose I needed more practice.

It was the Christmas of ’62. Having been nabbed again I proceeded to unwrap THAT gift with all the gusto of someone who knew it contained a time bomb. Suddenly, my face exploded with joy unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

“Mom, dad, look, it’s an exact scale model replica of the French Reign of Terror guillotine. And it works, too. And it even has a whole bag of victims. This is the keenest Christmas educational toy ever!”

Oh, yes! I proceeded to sever more heads during the Christmas break than Robespierre during the entire Reign.

I made it personal, too. The teachers who hated me, all of them … off went their heads.

The teachers I hated … ditto. A second time around, just to be sure. Why not?

The girls who thought I was gross … chop!

The bullies who trolled the streets of my neighborhood … slice.

The kids who were better than I was on the playgrounds and ball fields … “there’s a ground ball to short, no, wait, it isn’t a ball!”
My version of capital punishment came to a head when my mom discovered me mixing a concoction of ketchup and water to make the executions more realistic.

The next day when I burst through the kitchen door after the first day back to school my Christmas educational toy had disappeared, never to be seen again. My mother accused me of misplacing it but I suspect she simply gave it to my dad who proceeded to play with it for hours in his workshop.

Today, accessing the newspapers and cable news channels, I pine for that wonderful replica. Politicians, actors and actresses, spoiled sports figures, criminals, nosy neighbors, irritating in-laws, ex-wives, all of them would be tasty snacks for my ravenous slanted blade.

Oh, well. I reckon it’s time to pay a visit to Ebay. One never knows what dreaded Christmas educational toy might be available at a reasonable price. The right toy would make a keen trip down memory lane.

The Aunt and Uncle

It seems every kid in the sixties had an aunt and uncle who, through no fault of his or her own, were relatives. I was no exception.

It was usually around 4 p.m. Christmas day when Aunt Elspeth and Uncle Elwood arrived, acting as if they’d been chauffeured in a limousine.

Aunt El was always the first through the door. Too late, I had been discovered.

“Oh, come here you precious thing”, she would babble. “You are so sweet I could just eat you all up”

What followed was a slathering of lipstick, spit and whatever other goo she could deposit on my cheeks. Gosh, Auntie El, the next time just have me for lunch!

With that, she would preen throughout the house believing she was the prettiest daughter in the family (she wasn’t). Greeting my mother (who was the prettiest daughter in the family) she would stroke her mink wrap draped around her neck insisting it was real (it was fake). You know, the one with the head of a dead fox pleading to be liberated from this woman.

Recovering from nearly being asphyxiated by my aunt, it was Uncle Elwood’s turn. He would always stoop and stare dispensing advice a seventy year-old wouldn’t understand. His philosophizing would usually end with “Skippy, where does your old man keep his booze, ah, I mean where’s the Christmas cheer?” With that he embarked on his search and destroy mission.

It was then I set a land speed record to the bathroom to drown my face in scalding hot water before Auntie El’s slop turned to cement.

That evening I would open their gift. I have no doubt Aunt Elspeth was always the culprit who bought the damn thing.

The gift unwrapped … “Mom, what is this?”

“Ah, um, well … it’s for when you get older.”

“How old?”

“Ah, you’ll know when you reach that age.”

I’m still reaching.

And Now …

Memories are the vacations of the mind. During those times when my thoughts travel the highways and country roads of my past I’m reminded of the love two special people gave to me. My stocking was hung with care and stuffed with surprises of which I had never dreamed. I’m warmed by the sweet voice of “Here comes Suzy Snowflake”, the three elves “I’m Hardrock, I’m Coco, I’m Joe” and Alvin and the Chipmunks, “Ah, Alvin you were a little flat … AL-VIN!” My nose tingles from the fresh smell of the evergreen tree adorned with the brightest lights, the silvery tinsel and topped with the Star of Wonder.

My parents have passed to That Better Place and my hope is I can fulfill their role as well as they did. Recalling the awe in the eyes of my children and grandchildren I believe I have passed the test. As my father would announce after I had tasted success: “Well done, Skipper!”

When the nights are quiet and cold and the celebration of the Savior nears, I nestle in my recliner, my feet propped near a crackling fireplace, and visit the snapshots of Christmas Past. I realize the best gifts I received were those packages of love wrapped in memories that will never leave me and on those nights when I reminisce really, really hard I can still feel a bit of Aunt Elspeth’s goo plastered to my cheek.

The merriest of Christmases and, as we were wont to say back then, “have a cool Yule.”

End