Tuesday, December 10, 2013

A Christmas Gift

Stark trees turned white shoulders to a stiff westerly which had piled snow on the west side of the house almost to the eaves. Christmas was upon us. All the cars had disappeared beneath beautiful white blanket laid down over night. On this cold, overcast morning we played through streets and yards. I had thrown ten thousand snow balls, and dodged twice as many, when all of a sudden, in a fierce shoot out, Robby’s snowball caught me dead in the eye. It hurt so bad I cried. They laughed at me and I was mortified. I blindly gave chase and they fled through the drifts, leaping and laughing. I turned and went into the house peeling off layers while Mom poured hot chocolate. “What’s wrong?” She saw my tears and gathered me into her protective arms. I explained and she inspected the eye.

“Can you see okay?”

“Yes.”

“It’s going to bruise, but you’ll be okay.”

There was a knock at the door. “We’re sorry,” I heard them say. “Is Var okay.”

“I think so.” Mom led Robby and Owen into the kitchen and poured for them.

“Mom, I saw the mailman,” I said as a whiff of steam rose from my cup. A week earlier I had written my letter to Santa with my Christmas list that would make me happy. It was a short list, because I knew Santa had many other children to care for, and Mom and Dad told me not to be greedy. A Buffalo Bill Cody Cap Gun set with a real leather holster. Buffalo Bill had recently become my hero. I’d read all about him in our school history book and checked out books from the school library. He had been a Calvary scout for the United States Army and later a Wild West entertainer beloved by all. I wanted to be just like him. Tough and popular. Also, I explained to Santa that I thought Dad was going to replace my blue handled Cub Scout knife which I had lost in the field down the street. Though Dad had said it was my responsibility, I knew in my heart he would help me. So, if Santa would be so kind, a Bowie knife like the one I had seen at Sears & Roebuck. And with a sheath. I had to have the sheath so I could wear it on my belt for adventures. I knew the knife was dangerous. I promised to be very careful with it and explained that I was a big boy now. I also took pains to let Santa know I was not greedy, but that I did want him to know that I wanted the Schwinn Stingray bicycle in green with the sissy bar, but next year would be okay for that. The bike I had was okay.

I was specific and asked Santa to reply. Mom explained he was very busy this time of year and might not be able, but I explained to Mom that Billy had gotten a reply. So if Santa could reply to Billy, he could reply to me, too. She reminded me of all the millions of children to whom he had to reply. I didn’t listen. Mom patiently helped me write it, and when we finished, she sealed, stamped it said she would mail it for me.

“Did I get my letter?”

She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “yes, but I’ll give it to you later.” Then patted my head.

“I want it now!” I demanded at no less than 100 decibels. If Santa had responded to me, I should not be kept from that letter. No way, no how. This was too important! Even if she was my Mom.

“The sun has come out. Why don’t you all go back out and play? Momma has to cook.”

“No, I want it now.” I could be determined. Even then.

“Okay, honey.” Strange, it didn’t come from the envelopes on the table, but rather she withdrew it from her apron. She handed it over. I tore into it like a wild animal. It was brief. I was shocked.

“Stupid Santa!” I screamed. Those insidious words on the paper etched themselves into my heart. How could he? “Is this it?” I was so mad I almost cried again. “That’s no gift.” I leapt up and threw the letter.

To my great surprise my mother laughed.

“It’s not funny,” I screamed again.

“What did it say?”

“Read it yourself.”

She picked up the letter and read it. “I think those are fine words Santa wrote,” she said, not the least upset for me. My Christmas was ruined.

“I hate Santa.”

“But why?” She asked.

“That’s no gift! I want my gun. That’s just stupid words.”

“Var, I didn’t see anywhere there that he wasn’t giving you your gun.”

I though for a moment. She was right. As always, she made me feel better.

“Go outside and play,” she said. “It’s too pretty to be trapped inside.”

I asked for a carrot to decorate the snowman we were going to build. There were no carrots so Mom gave me a ruby red radish for my snowman’s nose. Everyone thought that was so funny. The grownups all called him Whiskey. Whiskey stayed up for weeks and was the talk of our block.

That was fifty years ago.

A million battles, jobs, self recriminations, bottles of scotch, mortgages, unfulfilled dreams, diapers, divorces, tuitions and sleepless nights ago. I am not sure who I dreamt I would become, but I am not he.

I have been selfish and a failure.

Outside a cold December rain falls. It is Christmas again and now I hold my mother, my real life Santa, in my arms. I realize, a little late, how much she means to me and how greatly I will miss her. “Merry Christmas,” she says quietly. She hands me an ancient, yellowed scrap of paper. “I love you, son.” What's this? My old letter from Santa Claus. She’d kept the thing all these decades. I have never forgotten, nor heeded its words. With trembling hand I read,

Var, Things won't make you happy, but, if you are happy, you will enjoy your things. Love yourself as I love you. From this flow the cardinal virtues of Character, Compassion and Forgiveness. From these comes your happiness. When you are happy, you love yourself.

This is my gift to you.

And you are my gift to the world.

Merry Christmas,

Santa Claus.


Copyright, 2013 
Luke Saucier

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