THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 24, 1995 TAG: 9512220072
SECTION: HOME PAGE: G1 EDITION: FINAL
LENGTH: Long : 246 lines
REMEMBER THE Christmas when. . . .
Everyone can conjure up memories of Christmases past - some poignant, some heart-warming, some downright funny. It's part of what makes the holiday special.
Take Albert and Carol Roper, for instance. Each Christmas Eve, family and a few friends gather at their stately home in the Freemason section of Norfolk for refreshments and a reading of ``The Night Before Christmas'' by Al, whose snowy beard makes him a ringer for Santa Claus.
But one year not long ago there almost wasn't a tree to gather round. It was the first year the Ropers failed to tie their 10-foot tree to the curtain rods.
``It seemed like a perfectly stable tree,'' Carol Roper recalled. ``It was the most beautiful tree ever.
``We were about three-quarters finished decorating, and I had a load of presents in my arms to put under the tree. I bent down just in time to see the tree coming down on top of me. When it got straightened back up and tied up, it was beautiful - except there was a great big hole in the front.''
Thankfully, Carol wasn't hurt, and, as with many near-disasters, the family now can look back and laugh.
In a similar vein, members of The Virginian-Pilot staff share with readers some of their humorous stories from Christmases past. ASH-COVERED PUP RENEWS FAITH IN SANTA
It was Christmas of 1977, and I was living in Montgomery, Ala., when a puppy proved to a small boy that Santa does exist.
I lived a few blocks from Valerie and MacDowell Lee, who asked me to dog-sit Christmas Eve for a collie pup - a a gift for their son, Arch. Mac said he wondered why he bothered to pretend that Santa had delivered the gifts, because Arch was starting to doubt Santa's existence.
When I went to bed, the puppy was asleep in a large - and I thought escape-proof - cardboard box. But when I awoke at 5:30 a.m. to dress him in a big red bow, he was yapping and playing in my fireplace.
He no longer had pristine white fur on his nose and paws.
After two scrubbings, it was clear that his paws would not come clean, and, as luck would have it, Mac arrived.
``Hurry up and give me the dog. I don't care if he's got ashes on him,'' Mac said. ``Arch is waking up. I gotta get back with the dog so he can find it under the tree where Santa left it. Valerie's keeping him busy getting dressed.''
Father and dog were gone in a flash. As I settled into the couch with a cup of coffee to watch my own puppy claim her goodies from a stocking, the phone rang.
``Merry Christmas,'' Mac said. ``I just want to thank you for keeping the dog and restoring a child's faith in Santa.
``When Arch saw the dog he declared, `Look, it has ashes on its paws. Santa brought it down the chimney with him.' Now isn't that just the cutest thing you ever heard?''
Arch is 24 now. I'm sure he doesn't believe in Santa any longer. But for my part, I never have figured out how a 6-week-old pup got out of a huge box or what attracted him to the fireplace.
Lou Elliott MAKE SURE IT'S ONLY TRASH YOU BURN
LATE ONE CHRISTMAS morning, in the back yard adjacent to my family's home in Valdosta, Ga., I saw the two out-of-town visiting teenage grandsons burning gift wrappings and boxes in a wire trash receptacle.
Very slowly.
I went outside and asked the boys why they were carrying out the task so deliberately, one piece of paper at a time.
``Well,'' said the older youth, who was about 14, ``we were told to be careful that we burned only the trash.
``Last year,'' he added, ``someone burned up Aunt Marguerite's new girdle.''
David Kippenbrock SHORT NIGHT FOR SANTA AND MRS. CLAUS
CHRISTMAS 1963 was an outstanding one for the Brinkley family, when our youngest son was born two weeks before Christmas Day.
Our three older sons were 11, 9, and 7 and had a difficult time falling asleep that Christmas Eve, so my husband, John, and I had to wait for hours to play Santa.
There were toys to be brought in and put together with nuts and bolts by following instructions that resembled another language. It was midnight before the last little eyes closed tightly and a tired Mr. and Mrs. Claus began their work.
We didn't finish until after 2 a.m., remarked to each other about the dark circles under our eyes and were ready to fall into bed for a ``short'' winter's nap, when our hungry little baby woke up for a snack.
His wails promptly woke up the other boys, who sprang from their beds in a flash!
Needless to say, it was a long night that turned out to be short on sleep for exhausted mom, dad, and boys. My husband was so tired that he was unable to eat Christmas dinner.
That was 32 years ago and our sons are married now. Two have sons and daughters of their own. When we mention that particular Christmas Eve long ago, everyone remembers it as a unique night . . . with the exception of the ``baby'' of the family.
Shirley Brinkley EACH ORNAMENT HUNG WITH CARE - TWICE
MY FAMILY ALWAYS had Christmas trees that filled the foyer of our house and reached to the 12-foot ceiling. Decorating took several days and was a precise operation, overseen by my father, a former Marine officer.
When I was 12 years old, my older sister gave me a glass Charlie Brown to hang on the tree. Now, nearly 30 years later, I have an impressive collection of ornaments - some handmade, some gifts, some souvenirs from trips.
Last year when my husband and I bought a large, old house with 10-foot ceilings, I was overjoyed. We could finally have a tree like I remembered from my childhood.
Moments after we stood the tree in its stand, I heard a crash and ran to the living room just behind my toddler, who was nearly crushed by the falling tree.
My husband righted the tree, this time wiring it to the moldings, and we proceeded the next day to decorate, with the help of some friends. I unpacked ornaments and handed them out, while keeping a watchful eye on my little girls.
It was a beautiful tree, but I felt a twinge of disappointment at not getting to hang ornaments myself.
I should only have been grateful.
The next night, I discovered water dripping through the basement ceiling. My husband traced it to the tree stand, which had cracked in the fall.
Working into the wee hours of the morning, we removed all the ornaments and all 600 or so lights and stashed them out of reach of the girls.
The next night, we put the tree in a new stand and redecorated. This time I got to hang every last one of those treasured ornaments myself.
Marcia Mangum ``BE A GOOD BOY AND GO TO BED''
THINGS WERE CHAOTIC on Christmas Eve, 1964 - not unusual for the Huber family. My parents had just moved to Norfolk with the 11 of us kids in September.
Shortly after dinner, one of my brothers came running downstairs, yelling, ``Jimmy's bed is on fire.'' My dad flew up the stairs. Later we found out that he ran so fast because he thought he heard, ``Jimmy's on fire.''
My 5-year-old brother James had taken a string of Christmas lights under his bed and plugged them in. After watching for a little while, he left them, where they started the fire.
My mother called the fire department, and they soon arrived. After putting out the fire, they took the mattress out back and began chopping it up with their axes to make sure there were no hidden sparks left to flare up.
This was the most excitement any of us ever had on Christmas Eve, but soon it got better.
A teenaged boy in the neighborhood was making the rounds in a Santa suit. He got to our house while the firemen were still out back.
After he was told of the cause of all the excitement, Santa took my brother James aside for a stern talk about the dangers of fire, which he ended by telling James, ``Now, you be a good boy and go to bed.''
If only he had one!
Barbara Price THE FIREMEN GOT THEIR JUST DESSERTS
IT WAS THE Christmas of 1975, and my mom had introduced me earlier that holiday season to what would become a house specialty: frozen chocolate mousse pie.
I was 12 and my brother was 9. On Christmas morning after we tore through the gifts, there remained a pile of balled-up wrapping paper - and an immeasurable amount of stupidity.
Dad started a fire, and we all began to toss in the paper.
Suddenly, the house shook. Ashes tumbled into the fireplace from above. I darted out of the house and looked up. Flames were jumping from the chimney.
Mom called 911.
By the time the firemen arrived, the flames had subsided, although smoke still billowed out. A couple of puffs had backed down the chimney and into the family room.
The firemen were surprisingly upbeat, even though they were answering a call caused by bumble-brains. They blamed the fire on a combination of a bird's nest midway up the flue and the flaming wrapping paper.
As the firemen reloaded their truck, Mom raced inside and grabbed every piece of dessert she could.
We were having a slew of guests that afternoon, but the firemen deserved thanks for their efforts.
On one arm Mom balanced a carrot cake and pecan pie. On the other, she had a plate of chocolate chip cookies - and, to my dismay, the frozen chocolate mousse pie.
Her graciousness was appreciated by all on the truck.
I kept my mouth shut until the firemen were out of earshot, then wailed, ``Mom, what have you done?''
``Remember,'' she said, ``this is the season of giving and our house could have burned down.''
Reality check.
From that Christmas on, I deputized myself the gate-keeper for all Christmas morning wrapping paper. For I knew, barring a disaster, there was pie to be had.
Rich Radford SANTAS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
'Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
I could hear mother scurrying,
She wasn't exactly a mouse.
As the last child at home,
I was tucked into bed,
And dreamy teen idols,
Danced in my head.
David Cassidy, Donny Osmond,
Bobby Sherman and such.
In the early '70s
These guys were too much.
Old dad sat back,
In the dining room chair,
With a Pabst Blue Ribbon,
In front of him there.
Finally, when the folks
Thought I was asleep,
Dad brought in a ladder,
But didn't know how to creep.
The metal steps moaned,
As his weight bent the frame,
And the attic door banged
While he played Santa's game.
The racket continued,
Just outside my door,
With swearing and cursing,
And yelling and more.
Then outside my room,
There arose such a clatter,
I covered my head,
To avoid the whole matter.
To be Santa Claus,
Was my father's quest,
But he'd fallen six feet,
A stereo upon his chest.
``Oh Crayton!''
I heard my mother exclaim,
``Not now Pauline,
``You made me put it up there.''
Then, my door flew open,
Lights blinding my eyes,
``I know you're awake,
``Get up now!'' old Dad cried.
``I got it down,
``You set it up yourself.
``I'm going to bed,''
Said my father, the elf.
I rocked and I rolled,
'Til mom turned off the lights
Merry Christmas to all,
Please be careful tonight.
Ruth Fantasia ILLUSTRATION: SAM HUNDLEY/The Virginian-Pilot
by CNB