Santa Claus is Coming to Town

My son is currently obsessed with a DVD collection of Christmas movies. Kids go through phases where they will watch the same movies repeatedly. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Ethan's current fixation on those old movies, the ones we used to only get to watch DURING the holiday season, brings back memories of years past. Times when the magic of a holiday such as Christmas was real. Times when my father's twisted sense of humor scarred my sisters and I into adulthood.

I don't remember my exact age, but I would guess that I was about six or seven years old. We lived in an old farmhouse in the country, our nearest neighbor being a mile or more away across open cornfields. Our home had the same ominous look as the Amityville house. It's front had a row of windows on the first floor that looked like a grinning mouth, full of teeth. The second floor showed two windows that made eyes. Long covered porches ran the full length of the front and back, with roofs that allowed daring children to move from one bedroom to another by scrambling across their shingled surfaces. Chimneys appeared as symmetrical horns from the top of the house, belching wood smoke to the sky in the winter months.

In those days my father hated beer, as I have noted here in the past. My mother always brought the stuff home, and being the guy he was, my father had no choice but to drink it. It was always a valiant effort on his part, he had to dispose of the foul fluid the only way he knew. Often, after long periods of judgment dulling labor, working hard to rid the fridge of beer, Dad attempted to entertain us by disproving all of our weak-minded childhood fantasies.

It was Christmas eve and, as it seemed was always the case back then, a fresh layer of snow had covered everything. We were all sent to bed to lie awake for what might have been hours awaiting Santa's arrival. I can clearly remember staring out my window from across the room. It must have been a full moon because there seemed to be an other worldly light coming from the just fallen snow outside on the roof. The whole world was glowing in anticipation of the coming of midnight, and with it the fulfillment of weeks of dreaming, wishing and begging. Slumber was slow to come. My heart was beating too quickly to allow my mind to grasp hold of the dancing sugarplums I had heard so much about.

As my brain finally felt the first tingles of sleep moving over it, I heard a noise outside. It was a heavy thump on the roof above, followed by another. My eyes snapped open before the first thump had ended. This was the moment I had longed for my whole life. I sat up, looking at the black sky outside. Was it Santa? Another thump had me sitting on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling from the side. The sound of jingling bells slipped into my room from outside, sending my heart into a dangerously rapid pace. A final thump on the roof threw me to my feet, silently running across the cold hardwood toward the window.

Three feet shy of the window, I heard a thunderous BOOM from outside. I stopped cold. The sill of my frost framed window was just beyond my reach. I was stunned by the totally foreign sound, and could not comprehend what it could have been. From outside, down on the pristine whiteness of the lawn, came the crazed voice of my father. I could hear him screaming maniacal laughter as I stepped closer to the glass and looked out. He was standing in the center of the yard bare chested, wearing only rubber boots and jeans, dancing in a circle with his shotgun.

"I got that summabitch! I got him! That'll teach that bastard to land on my roof!"

At my fathers feet laid a red velour hat with a fluffy white ball on top. From across the hall I heard my older sister screaming. She always tended to overreact in such situations, even though she was two years older than me. My mother soon rushed into the room to assure us that Dad had not really shot Santa Claus. It was all just a bad joke and we should get to sleep before the real Santa arrived. Sleep was impossible with the sound of one sister sobbing in the next room, and another screaming at her to shut up from down the hall.

I am often tempted to inject such memories into the fragile young minds of my children; but Mrs. Denotsko always talks me out of it. What harm could come from it though? I turned out fine. Right? Right?