Santa

An article in Mamapedia started my day.  A little boy had discovered mom's stash of stocking stuffers, and should the mom then just let it out of the bag once and for all that Santa is not real.

I flashed to myself, a little girl, probably about five.  We went down, from Ottawa, to visit my grandparents in Arlington, VA.

I snuck into the living room early Christmas morning and found sticks in my Grandpa Dinny's stocking!  I was heartbroken and quickly switched the sticks with what was in my stocking.

I also noticed a piece of red flannel in the fireplace.

Later, Grandma Dinny told me, in a big gasp, that Santa must have ripped his pants.  "Oh" she said dramatically, "Mrs. Santa is going to whip Santa with a switch and make him sleep in the woodshed!"

I was horrified, poor Santa living like that.  No wonder he was mean enough to put sticks in sweet Grandpa's stocking!

The next year, back in Ottawa, we were walking to a store and Santa happened to be standing outside.

We ran to hear him, joined the circle around him.  He was saying, "Oh, and last year, I ripped my britches!  Mrs. Claus whipped my backside and made me sleep in the woodshed!"

Horrified, I managed to find the courage to tell him, "That was my house!"

Years later, my mother would laugh and say you should have seen his face.  And she always swore she hadn't set it up.

To me, I feel lucky.  I have teenage sons and I still tell them Santa is real.  Oh, not the sneak around and pretend he shops at Walmart Santa.  The real one.

I am lucky.  I am so lucky to have a God that knows I am dense and leaves me no room to doubt.  And I have Santa smiling, laughing, loving and always hearing, having fun in my life.

Every year I ask Santa for a little something.  I never tell anyone else.   Every year Santa gets it to me through someone, somehow.

The strongest example was one year, my boys were babies.  I asked for a foot stool.  I said I didn't care what it looked like.  (I know the poor guy is very busy!)  And I wanted a pet, but I wasn't sure with two young babies, that I was ready for the added responsibility.  I'd leave that up to him.

That year too, a week or so before, I was shopping.  I admit, now and then I hear voices.  Luckily, they tell me good things so I'm not going to take drugs to make it stop.  This one was a family friend.  Frank.

He was more my sister in law's friend.  He died in a sky diving accident.  He had a wicked sense of humor and loved Heidi fiercely.

He spoke to me that day and told me I had to go to Phar Mor pharmacy.   I really didn't feel like it, but he insisted.

I went in, he told me to go back to the book section.  He made me get a Christmas collection by Maeve Beachey called "This Year Will Be Different"  and it had a cozy fireplace glowing on the front, beautiful, big fire.

"It's for Mary."  He said.

Okay.   Mary is my mother in law.  He loved messing with her.

I get home.  The phone is ringing.  It is Mary, choked up.  She shared a duplex with my brother in law and his wife.   The house had caught on fire.  There had been a lot of damage.

I looked down at the bag I was holding, the fire, This Year Will Be Different, and I could hear Frank howling with laughter in my head.

So, Christmas comes.  Paul and Julie and Nana (Mary) were in an apartment temporarily.  The house had been that damaged.

They, sort of as a joke, left the presents charred and smoke damaged.
They owned a second hand store.  They had been collecting all the match box cars that wandered through all year.  There was a huge garbage bag full.  The boys were thrilled!

They didn't notice many were melted, smoke damaged.   Later, they would be in the store saying, "Wow, that car sort of looks like the one we have, but ours is browner."

We had so many cars, and potty training was so not popular, I used to bribe them.  You should see the looks I got in public restrooms.  "Momma!  I pooped and I peed, do I get a car AND a truck?"

Oh well.  Sure beat diapers.

So, in front of me is a large trash bag with a bow and a box.

I open the trash bag.  There is no way to fully describe what sat before me.  Golden legs, three, charred and burnt, leading up to a smokey, dusty clear plastic top with the ugliest plastic flowers, some melted, lying as on a battlefield.

"You said you didn't care what it looked like!"  this joyous voice chortled in my head and had a great, long, belly laugh.

"Gee, thanks?"   Trying to plot, is there any way to get even with Santa Claus?

Then the box.  I open it.  It is a plain, brown box.  I'm afraid.  I open it.  It is a picture of someone holding a cat with "Bootsie" written underneath.  Bootsie?

I pull out the picture, and there is a clear, plastic pouch with gray powder.   I just stare.  Julie chimes in, "It's a cremated cat. Paul gave you a cremated cat for Christmas."

My words came back to me...not sure...not sure I was ready for the...responsibility.....I look down at Bootsie...how many people get cremated cats for Christmas?   Other than a dusting a few times a year, I can't say Bootsie was any trouble at all.

I used to laugh, imagine going to the vet with Bootsie, not even sure what sex the darned critter was...and saying, "What do you mean, he's...deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeead????????"   bursting into tears.

Bootsie liked the back room, and I could hear him her it purring at me when I did laundry.

A minister at a church where I sang was fascinated.  "How much does a cremated cat weigh?"  "Can you see any teeth?"

When he was leaving to go to another church, I brought Bootsie in at his farewell service.  He lit up, seeing me coming up the aisle, box in hand.  His wife, guess she'd heard stories, was a southern belle and started in "Oh no, you are NOT!"

I hadn't really meant to pass the Boots, but I just had to, given the moment.

So, Bootsie is somewhere further south, hopefully still purring when people do laundry.

And to me, I don't care what anyone says ever, Santa will always be very, very real.