"Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat." And nervous.
Christmas is a time of remembrances. I realize that not all memories are joyful. Not all of mine are. But, I'm inviting you all to share good memories of Christmas. Here's one of mine:
Back when I was a little kid, and still believed in Santa Clause, we had a family tradition we followed at Christmas. I grew up in Wisconsin, and most families I knew opened presents on Christmas Eve. As far as I was concerned, Christmas Eve started the second I finished wolfing down my supper. As soon as everyone else finished eating, my Mother would take me and my two older sisters down into the basement. Even though we put up a tree well in advance of Christmas, we didn't put the presents under the tree. I knew for a fact that Santa didn't bring presents until Christmas Eve. (I was willing to suspend belief in him coming down our little chimney into our coal furnace, though.)
While my Mother and sisters and I were downstairs, my Father would stay upstairs, and hide behind the couch, so he could see Santa. As soon as the basement door was safely closed, my father would tiptoe across the room, and out onto the porch. When he reached the screen porch door, he'd slam it loudly (which had to be traumatic for him, as he always yelled at us kids when we slammed the door) and then come stomping his way across the porch and into the house, with many loud, "Ho, Ho Ho's." Then, he'd tiptoe into the bedroom, get all the presents out of hiding (there weren't all that many when I was a kid) and place them under the Christmas tree. When he was done, he'd stomp his way back across the lving room floor, out through the dining room and onto the porch calling "Merry Christmas to all. When he got to the screen porch door he'd slam it loudly as he "left." Then, he'd tiptoe back into the house, and walk over to the basement door and call down to us, "You can come up now, he's gone."
When we came upstairs my eyes would be popping with excitement, and I'd ask my Dad if he'd seen Santa. (the couch would still be pushed away from the wall, where Dad had been hiding.) He'd always tell me that he'd peaked around the arm of the couch when Santa wasn't looking, and watched him putting the presents under the tree. And my imagination did the rest.
When I started school, and I was beginning to have my doubts, other kids would tell me that Santa Clause wasn't real. I'd counter with, "Yes he is, my Father SAW him!" After I knew that there was no real "Santa Clause," it didn't bother me all that much. I felt lucky that I lived with Mr. and Mrs. Santa Clause, 365 days out of the year.