Santa Claus Is Coming To Town

Like all good Germanic folk, my family opened gifts on Christmas Eve. My parents had a particularly crafty way of getting the Santa booty under the tree that was pure magic for those of us who believed there was an old fat guy floating around the world on a sky sleigh one frigid winter night each year. They would bundle my brother, my sister and me into our winter coats and hustle us into the back of the Oldsmobile while one of them dragged the wrapped presents from goodness only knows what hiding place. To our receptive, innocent minds it was clear that Santa somehow always knew exactly when we were off to tour the Christmas light displays in our town.

One street was particularly impressive since it was a cul-de-sac (already it posessed some sort of caché for weirdly not leading anywhere). The residents had this extraordinarily neighborly practice of getting together and planning a collective lighting display. Each yard contained a painted sign and diorama which, when read and viewed sequentially, told a Christmas story (not necessarily THE Christmas story). It was simple for our parents. All they had to do was drive ALL THE WAY across our population 15,000 town to the north side, then drive slowly enough for one or the other of them to recite to us whatever was painted on the boards. There were years we had to beg for this to happen. Amazing, huh? It probably took, what, five minutes to drive from 14th Street Southeast to Weird And Wonderful Circle Northwest? The truly amazing thing to me now is that the piped Christmas music was loud enough to be heard through whatever sort of cast iron or carbon steel or hand forged titanium or whatnot from which the body a late 1960's Oldsmobile was constructed.

This was all wonderful and amazing enough to still impress me 35 years on but it barely touches the most miraculous Christmas Eve ever. My sister and I were in the bathtub. I don't remember my brother being there but he must have been because I was somewhere near the age of 5. Possibly 6. Definitely not 3 because that was the year brother was an infant and barfed all over the mink collar on Mom's wicked hip Jackie Kennedy-style winter coat during our Christmas light odyssey. Definitely not 4 either because that was the year Mom had walking pneumonia and we opened our presents Christmas morning; no light tour necessary.

Anyway, sis and I are in the bath. Mom is hunched over the side of the tub scrubbing one of us. Dad is standing in the doorway of the bathroom when we all hear a mighty CRASH! It was one hell of a mad scramble to get 3 wee ones dried and dressed in jammies before we could dash into the living room to find that Santa had made his annual visit right under our very noses. Actually, it's possible this happened when I was 7 because I seem to recall there being bicycles under the tree for me and my sister.

There is wonder-filled little girl still inside me who resolutely believes in Santa Claus. I know I'll be peering skyward in 11 days' time, just to see. Just in case.