No one survives those early Christmases except for me.
Except in my head and heart.
I came to truly believe in A Superior Being when I received my first toy at Christmas. It was the answer to my prayers.
I come from humble stock. Hell, our stock came from humble stock. December 25th was a break in the routine of being poor, as I recall it.
Or it was a break in being refused everything in the world that I thought I absolutely could not live without. As my parents remembered it.
Sure, love and security and caring discipline and a good home are nice, but somehow I figured toys were truly indicative of parental affection.
I remember Christmas.
Driving to Grandma’s house (it was definitely hers, Grandpa was just paying for it) was ten hours winding through tiny towns on two-lane blacktop. A ride that’s now barely seven hours on the Interstate.
Eight miles into the trip, well, some people credit my little brother and I with being the kids who first said, “Are we almost there yet?”
Detroit never made a car big enough for the two of us. Michael and I would be about ready to kill each other by the time we finally got to Punxsutawney.
One trip, during a lull, I began to doze off and I thought I heard my folks discussing how they could sell us to the highest bidder.
The next time they stopped for gas.
Mom was willing to just give us away.
But Dad told her she should be more practical.
When we’d burst into the house, Grandma would always be standing in the kitchen with an apron on and Grandpa was always on the toilet.
The kitchen would smell like fresh bread and warm cinnamon rolls and steaming coffee, which I never drank back then. On the counter there’d be yellow noodles, dusted with flour, pounded on a thin towel.
The table would be straining to hold up under the weight of incredible dishes my Mom had learned to prepare as a girl.
But never seemed to have the time to cook at home.
I’d start eating like I was Idi Amin and I wouldn’t stop until forced to go to bed.
On Christmas morning – when I was really little – I would levitate over my crib railing and roll down the stairs to the dining room. There the biggest tree I had ever seen indoors would tower over a huge pile of brightly colored packages.
Did you ever notice how the trees seemed smaller as you grew bigger?
A few years later, I’d pop up in bed and Michael would be already sitting there, tapping me on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” he’d whisper.
It was about 2:40 a.m.
And we’d tiptoe out to see what we could see.
Once real early we saw Santa Claus actually setting out the presents. He was wearing a red suit and a red cap and he had long white hair sticking out of the cap. Oh, and of course, a long white beard. Anybody else would’ve looked silly in that outfit.
He had the same build as Grandpa.
At first I thought Grandpa might have truly been Santa until Michael reminded me that he didn’t have a beard.
And another thing, I knew Grandpa didn’t have a red suit or I would’ve seen it some other time.
We weren’t allowed to start opening presents until everybody else was up. So we had to keep quiet until “a reasonable hour.” Which we decided was about 6 a.m.
Then we’d start accidentally bumping into stuff and telling each other real loud to hush. “Quiet! You’ll wake everybody up!!
Sometimes we’d have to actually holler a little. Until Mom made Dad get out of bed.
When we stopped being the two cutest little boys anybody had ever seen in their lives, our parents told us they weren’t going to put up with our nonsense any more. And we’d have to start sleeping later on Christmas morning.
I was about eight and big for my age. Michael was miffed ’cause he thought he still had a couple of good years left in him. I’ll admit it – he was cute.
No longer able to get by on just our good looks, we decided to use our brains.
I suggested – and Michael backed me up on this – since December 25th was really Jesus Christ’s birthday, maybe we should open our gifts on Christmas Eve.
You know, the better to focus on the true meaning of the Christmas holiday itself.
They fell for it.