Santa ‘Plaus’ and the rusty pick-up
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, and it should. Christmas morning is almost here and if children are part of your family, the air is so full of excitement that it crackles.
Kids are giggling more. They are acting up more because they can’t contain themselves. Teachers of younger children are saying things like, “Sweetie, why don’t you just sit down and look at this book.” What she’d like to say is “If I hear your voice one more time, I’m going to scream!”
But she would never say that. Really. She wouldn’t.
We had a house full of little kids. They were like stair steps, and the closer Christmas came, the squirrelier they became. Don’t get me wrong. They were good kids. They behaved themselves … mostly. But when Christmas was close, they morphed into little humans with so much energy, they were exhausting. This is when my kid memories kicked in.
“What did my mom do when my brother, sister and I started acting like wired up circus animals?” She got out her mixer, flour, sugar, butter, vanilla, cinnamon, cream and all kinds of cookie decorating bottles of food coloring, sprinkles, and other sugary decorations. Sugar did not hype us up.
It had kind of a calming effect. And we so loved to create beautiful Christmas cookies to share with neighbors and friends. No, we were not the neatest of cookie creators, but some of my fondest childhood memories are centered around Christmas activities.
My dad was a collector of important stuff. There was no telling what he might come home with that he found out on the street or in the base thrift store. One year right after we had gotten our Christmas tree, he came home with what he thought would be perfect tinsel.
He presented my mother with a sack full of wide strips of silver packing material. Mom took one look at it and told Dad in no uncertain terms that we were not going to use garbage he had collected littering the roadway on our beautifully perfect tree. My dad looked at her and said, “My gosh, honey! (He always called my mother “honey” even if he was exasperated with her) What’s wrong with it? We can use scissors to make it smaller.” “You have got to be kidding!” she said incredulously. “A box of tinsel costs thirty-nine cents! I think we can afford that, don’t you?”
I remember him looking at her sheepishly and then he started to laugh. She did too. This incident became a fond memory for our whole family. We titled it “Daddy and the fake tinsel.”
I had a pretty good idea about the real identity of the jolly old elf when we lived in Kansas. Late in the night on Christmas Eve, I heard Mom and Dad arguing. I hated it when they argued, but I also remembered their arguments eventually became laughable… at least to them.
“You can’t put it there, honey. They could fall and hit the plate glass windows.”
Mom said they wouldn’t fall. Dad said they would and so on and so forth. Finally, mom
conceded that it was a possibility, and they went about their business of playing Santa’s elves. This was the year my sister and I got our Flexible Flyer sleds, and I learned the true identity of Jolly Old St. Nick.
With my own children, I carried on the cooking/baking tradition started by my mother and I made sure I had everything needed to help our kids make the most beautiful Christmas cookies. Did they make a mess? Oh gracious, did they ever! This never bothered me, though.
I loved their excitement and how they helped each other create the prettiest reindeer, wreaths, Santas, Christmas toys, and sleighs. I always remember an incident every Christmas back when my youngest was around five.
It made me laugh so hard, I almost choked. He was feeling out of sorts for some reason. I don’t remember why. He turned himself toward me and the expression on his little face was pure disgust. Pulling himself up and sticking his chest out, he said to me in his strongest voice, “I bet Santa “Plaus” (he had trouble with his “cl” words) doesn’t even have a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer.
I bet Rudolph doesn’t have a red light bulb for a nose either. I think Santa Plaus drives a rusty old pick-up truck and just throws presents in the front yard. You and Daddy have to walk out and get them. He doesn’t even care if it’s raining!”
With that, he stomped off and I was bent over laughing. Oh, out of the mouth of babes. Merry Christmas, everyone!