So the Christmas Eve feast is complete and the stockings are
hung by the chimney with some amount of care.
The air is still, the only sound, chatter from the stars,
which leaves me here, alone, at 1 AM, on a more than mild, night before
Christmas, scanning the skies, with the hope that something might appear, maybe even Santa Claus...even if it’s only the
one I still conjure in my head.
Just something I like to do on early Christmas mornings, digging
up magic that just for a moment, once again, I can believe; like the kid I once
was, believed.
When I was that kid, the excitement of Christmas morning was
overwhelming.
I mean, really...all one had to do was write up a list of things I...I
mean one...wanted and this fat old
guy named Santa would deliver them under my...I mean...your tree.
Who could make something like that up?
It had to be true!
There was no other explanation!
I can't say I have many memories of my first Christmas since I was
just sneaking up on 9 months old and the most fascinating thing in my life back
them was the third toe on my left foot.
What? It was a pretty
cool toe.
And not much happened my second Christmas, either, but I found eating
wrapping paper to be highly addictive.
My third Christmas also didn’t go as planned since my language
skills left something to be desired. While I thought I was asking for a cowboy
hat and a fire truck, Santa apparently heard pajamas and a red pair of shoes.
Red shoes...really?
By my fourth Christmas I was able to verbalize somewhat
better, so when I asked for a giraffe and an elephant, I was very confused when
Santa brought me more pajamas and yet a another pair of shoes—this time blue—but, lo and behold,
also delivered the cowboy hat...finally.
I guessed it was a process.
By my fifth Christmas I still couldn’t write, but I could
dictate my list to my friend Pami, across the street, who diligently recorded
my wishes, but then passed the list over to her older sister Wendi, who decided
to make some additions, which led to some confusion on Christmas morning when I
received a Barbie Doll along with a complete line of Barbie accessories and an
Easy Bake Oven...but still no sign of the fire truck.
By my sixth Christmas I could scratch out a pretty legible
list, all on my own, so I didn’t have to worry about any more Barbie
clothes...although I admit, I was curious about the new Malibu collection.
And on it went from there, until the day I realized there
was actually no real Santa pounding out fire trucks and cowboy hats in his
little workshop up north, which, as you might imagine, kind of put a damper on
that whole Christmas magic thing.
And to be honest, while in that neophyte state of mind, I did
enjoy the “getting”, the real thrill of Christmas was the idea that some kind
of magic would somehow take place in my very own house between the time my eyes
finally closed on Christmas Eve and eagerly re-opened, early Christmas morning.
So here I sit, again, on an early Christmas morn, scanning
the skies, conjuring the magic that now, I’m happy to say, comes more in the “giving” than the “getting”.
And somewhere out there, up amongst the chattering stars and
moon so full, I do believe I hear the slightest whisper of sleigh bells and a
jolly HO HO HO....
It could be...you just never know...you can’t really tell.
It’s Christmas, a day when anything is possible.
Who knows....I might even get that fire truck....
Hold on...was that another Ho Ho Ho?
________________________________________________
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Oh Brian, we had some good memories on Hobart, didn't we? Sorry about the Barbie doll...you know how controlling Wendi can be sometimes. Didn't she make you climb that tree and then went home for lunch and left you there dangling? You did make some mean brownies in that easy bake, though. Rumor has it you still do! Don't ever stop believing in the magic of Christmas...or Mr. Fang for that matter...because the best of times will forever live on in our minds. Merry Christmas my friend!
ReplyDeleteMerry Christmas, Pami. I do make a mean brownie and I'm still dangling in that tree....
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