Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, December 24, 1993 TAG: 9312240043
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: B-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Ed Shamy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Our parents managed to survive that, continue to survive it, in large part because they were able to deliver pre-emptive strikes that kept us little urchins at bay. Without that creative first-strike capability, we would have swallowed them whole and had the run of the house ourselves.
No season was more important for the folks to stay on their toes than Christmas. We were wired from mid-December until the final hours of Christmas Eve, thousands of kilowatts of electricity firing off each pudgy fingertip. We worked ourselves into a frenzy - fueled by the sudden and unprecedented availability of mint candies on the end tables.
We must have become unmanageable by Christmas Eve to drive my parents and their adult neighbors to such a creative solution. They told us that Santa Claus visits all the kids the night before Christmas, to deliver one small gift from his bag.
We accepted that as fact, and spent most of Christmas Eve with our runny noses pushed against window panes, our heaving breaths steaming the glass, peering into the dark, awaiting his arrival. We argued loudly over where he parked his sleigh, and where the reindeer were, and we claimed to have caught a glimpse of Santa dashing behind a bush, or hiding behind a tree.
Finally, we would really catch a glimpse of Santa Claus, walking toward our house, and we would do what youngsters do when Santa approaches. We'd squeal, tinkle in our pajamas, and cry, depending on our respective ages.
One year, we saw Santa Claus in the house next door - the Handlers. The Handlers were Jews, and we'd celebrate Passover with them every year, but they were mellow about the holiday scene and they cooperated with our Christmas to the hilt.
From my window perch, I could look over the bushes and grass that separated our yard from the Handlers' - and could see my dad in the Handlers' dining room, slipping into a Santa outfit, and shoving a pillow into the top of his baggy red trousers.
Mom - I heard years later - called the Handlers on the sly to tell them he was in full view. I never understood why Santa hit the deck and the lights went out in the dining room across the way that Christmas Eve.
That year, as always, there was a pillowcase with the four gifts waiting for Santa on the front step of our home. Santa came in with his booming greeting. We were petrified. We sat on his lap, and he gave us each a gift, and we'd stare deep into Santa's eyes and be torn between abject fear and elation.
It never struck me that Dad might have something in common with Santa Claus. But Santa, for some never-researched reason, never loomed quite so scary again.
by CNB