Still writing, and as we are approaching the season, I thought that I'd post this. I wouldn't be comfortable posting this in the wilds of Mudcat, because it might be offensvie to those who think that any expression of faith is a judgment of others. But, this is the kitchen table and hopefully we can all relax and just be who we are. That's the way it is at our house where we have Atheists, Agnostics, Catholics, Baptists and Muslims gathered around the table together for Christmas.

T'was The Night Before Christmas

"T'was the night before Christmas" and we'd already opened our presents. Forget the dancing sugar plums. If you ever wondered how Santa Clause could deliver presents to all the kids on earth in one night, he got a running start by bringing all the kids in the Midwest their presents early on Christmas Eve. In our house, Christmas Eve started the minute we finished wolfing down our supper. It was the one time of year when I was thankful that we had supper at 4 o'clock.

Before I was school age, Santa came to our house every Christmas Eve. He didn't come down the chimney. If he had, he'd end up in our coal furnace and it wouldn't just be his suit that was red. He boldly walked through our front door. Not that I'd ever really seen him come into the house. But my Dad did.

After supper, Dad would hide behind the living room davenport, and Mom would herd my sisters and I down onto the basement stairs and then close the door behind us. For some unknown reason, Dad always got to hide behind the davenport, so that he could see Santa Clause when he came in. As soon as the basement door was closed, Dad would quietly sidle out from behind the davenport and tiptoe across the room and into the bedroom where our presents were carefully hidden in our one closet. He'd quickly carry them into the living room and place them haphazardly under the Christmas tree. When the presents were all under the tree he would tiptoe across the living room floor and into the dining room and careflly open the front door. With a sigh of relief, he would softly stroll out to the front of the porch and pause for a moment. Coming back into the hourse, Dad was Santa Clause. No need for a suit or a cotton-ball beard. The only one who could see him was him. As he came striding across the front porch, he'd stompthe non-existent snow off of his non-=existent boots and when he opened the front door he'd call out a "Ho!,Ho!,Ho!" in his best Santa-voice. Once inside the house he'd make a lot of fuss in the living room, as if he was unloading presents from his sack. All the time, I was hunched breathlessly behind the basement door, visualizing every move. When the presents were in place, Santa didn't have to stop and eat a plate full of cookies and drink a glass of milk on the way out. We never left anything for him. We didn't want Santa to stick around, once he'd delivered our presents. Besides, he would preferred a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon, but that would have blown his cover. As Dad headed noisily out the front door he'd call over his shoulder, "Ho!, Ho!, Ho!, and a Merry Christmas t all! and stomp his way across the front porch only to once again pause there. Then, it was a matter of sneaking back into the house without our hearing him so that he could hide behind the davenport. Mom always gave him enough time by telling us that we couldn't come out until we were sure he was gone, or we'd scotch the whole deal."

Continued