I wish I was 7 years old again.
But only at Christmas time.
Because believing in Santa Claus still was real.
Mom and Dad would load up the Jeep with all the presents,
and the cookies. There was never a shortage of both growing up. Mom used to
make the cookies while my sister and I were in school. We developed a bad cookie
dough snitching habit. My sister still loves raw chocolate chip cookie dough,
while I love old-fashioned soft sugar cookie dough. Grandma Frances would be
sitting in between us, so we kids wouldn’t fight. Mom and Dad always took
forever getting ready…
Eventually, we all buckled up and headed to my uncle’s house
in Rockford. 45 minutes seemed to take forever getting down there. But when we
got there, it took the same amount of time to unload the Jeep.
All the presents would go to the living room, where my
uncle’s tree stood. It was 8 feet tall, artificial white with over 200 blue
lights and an equal number of bird ornaments on the branches. The room was always
dimly lit, so the tree would glow.
My aunt’s Italian and Polish heritage has the custom of the
seven fishes on Christmas Eve. At seven, it was a strange custom, since we only
had fried fish at Tibbie’s restaurant, so all the different fishes and preparations
were not what we were used to. But at seven, is when we had scalloped clams for
the first time. They were served on clam shells with seafood forks, lemon
wedges and hot sauce. I wanted a second clam, but they were the first course…
After dinner and desert, when the cookies are left out well
after the coffee pot is empty, we’d all migrate back to the living room. My
sister, my cousins and I would stake out our places. Garth, my younger cousin,
handed out the presents. My place was by the carpeted stairs, where my cousins
and I use to race each other by sliding down them…not to mention get yelled at.
That Christmas, after all the presents were opened, we heard
a knock on the window. It was Santa! My cousin Garth bolted from the living
room to his bed. My sister bolted to the kitchen and I bolted upstairs until
Santa left. My other cousin had no idea what happened…she was in the bathroom
the whole time.
We did make it home,
albeit around 11:30p. Our presents from Santa were waiting for us. All were merry
and bright…
My grandma Frances died over 20 years ago. I still miss her
sitting on the red velvet chair in the living room with her lap afghan around
her legs. My uncle died 6 years ago September, of a sudden heart attack.
Christmas hasn’t been the same without them. My aunt continues the Christmas
Eve traditions, but she didn’t have my uncle’s entertaining flair. The
Christmas tree still stands, but it’s not as majestic as it once was. All the
cousins aren’t as close as we once were, now that we’ve all gone our separate
ways and they all have spouses and kids of their own, while I’m the family
eccentric because I’m without both. I figured out who Santa was when the note
was left with my presents the next Christmas. It was the same type used on my
Mom’s typewriter. She was bummed to realize I figured it out, but she saved
money buying extra presents.
As for me, I’m secretly hoping I never get to the point
where I’m given the infamous soap-on-a-rope gift sets for all sorts of god
awful cheap men’s cologne. I’d rather smell Tim McGraw than smell like his cologne.
I’ve watched my nephews and niece, then my cousin’s kids all carry on the same
excitement we cousins had when we were their age. The gifts become less
materialistic and more carrying on the traditions and dreams of wonder and
excitement. But every once in a while…
Santa,
This year for Christmas, could I relive what being 7 years
old was like all over again? Could I be with my grandma and my uncle one more
time? Could I look forward to your visit on Christmas Eve with the hopes of
getting presents from you for being good…or at least trying hard to be good? If
I can’t actually relive it, could you make incredibly real when I imagine it?
I’ve been very good this year. I haven’t touched a cigarette
in 15 years. Thanks to citalopram, I don’t drink. And I hardly drop the F-bomb
anymore.
Thanks, and Merry Christmas!
Mark
