CHRISTMAS LESSONS
It's during the Christmas season that we most remember the children we used to be. We remember the way we would check our behavior to stay in Santa's good graces, the agonizingly slow run-up to Christmas Eve, the superhuman effort it took to go to sleep that night, and we remember the joy we felt Christmas morning when we fell upon our gifts like wolves going after a lame caribou.
My sister and I couldn't get enough of that Christmas morning joy. So we decided to take it from others, namely the kids next door. We would sneak into their house while everbody was still asleep, then bind and gag the kids and throw them into the closet. We would then disguise ourselves to look like them (that was pretty tough when the Korean family was next door), wake up their parents and race downstairs to open presents. Usually the neighbors were so sleep-fogged that they didn't discover our ruse until we had safely made it out the door with the loot. Ah, those were good times.
Unfortunately, our parents eventually got word of our scam and decided to put an end to it. Such behavior, they told my sister and me, was beneath a Parnell -- especially if the take was less than $10,000. We had lost sight of the true meaning of Christmas, but we were going to get that back, by any means necessary.
True to their word, Mom and Dad made the next Christmas different. On Christmas Eve, they gave my sister and me "magic necklaces." My sister and I tumbled out of bed the next morning and dashed for the presents -- a sprint that came to a sudden halt inches from our objective when we both received an incapacitating jolt of electricity. It seems that the "magic necklaces" were actually Invisible Fence collars. Christmas, our parents told us, was not about presents. Yet we were game little creatures, not to be deterred by hundreds of volts of searing pain or moral lessons. Again and again we lunged for our presents until we at last broke through the barrier. Our greed had outlasted the collars' batteries. Our parents were disappointed but did admit that our perseverance showed grit.
The next year brought a new strategem: Mom and Dad decided to discredit the source of presents, Santa. On Christmas Eve after we were in bed and asleep, my sister and I woke up to a terrible argument in the living room. We ran out to discover our father pointing a pistol at Santa, who we found out years later was one of Dad's portly friends done up in red and ermine and carrying a bag over his shoulder. Dad was shouting at him saying, "So what are you trying to do, fat boy?! You're trying to get to my wife?! Is that it, honey?! How long have you been seeing this piece of @#$%?!" And my sister and I were wailing, "Please don't kill Santa Claus, Daddy! Please don't kill Santa!" But Dad was unmoved by our pleas and told us that Santa was a sleaze trying to break up our happy family, then turned and fired two shots at Santa (blanks, of course). My sister and I were momentarily stunned and horrified, but as soon as Santa had hit the floor, my sister looked at me and said, "You check the bag, and I'll get the toys from the sleigh." Then it was my parents turn to be stunned and horrified.
Eventually, my parents turned to drastic steps, strapping my sister and me into chairs and forcing us to watch "Waltons" reruns for 96 hours straight. Though that failed to completely cure us -- we became greedy for grimey overalls and stick-and-ball toys -- our parents began to see hope. By the next Christmas, we were able to say that maybe -- MAYBE -- Christmas wasn't all about presents.
Our parents, though, had learned a valuable lesson about holidays, the mysterious beings they bring along and their customs. Easter, they decided, would not be like Christmas. And so throughout our childhood every Saturday before Easter, my sister and I were served the same meal: rabbit stew.
It's during the Christmas season that we most remember the children we used to be. We remember the way we would check our behavior to stay in Santa's good graces, the agonizingly slow run-up to Christmas Eve, the superhuman effort it took to go to sleep that night, and we remember the joy we felt Christmas morning when we fell upon our gifts like wolves going after a lame caribou.
My sister and I couldn't get enough of that Christmas morning joy. So we decided to take it from others, namely the kids next door. We would sneak into their house while everbody was still asleep, then bind and gag the kids and throw them into the closet. We would then disguise ourselves to look like them (that was pretty tough when the Korean family was next door), wake up their parents and race downstairs to open presents. Usually the neighbors were so sleep-fogged that they didn't discover our ruse until we had safely made it out the door with the loot. Ah, those were good times.
Unfortunately, our parents eventually got word of our scam and decided to put an end to it. Such behavior, they told my sister and me, was beneath a Parnell -- especially if the take was less than $10,000. We had lost sight of the true meaning of Christmas, but we were going to get that back, by any means necessary.
True to their word, Mom and Dad made the next Christmas different. On Christmas Eve, they gave my sister and me "magic necklaces." My sister and I tumbled out of bed the next morning and dashed for the presents -- a sprint that came to a sudden halt inches from our objective when we both received an incapacitating jolt of electricity. It seems that the "magic necklaces" were actually Invisible Fence collars. Christmas, our parents told us, was not about presents. Yet we were game little creatures, not to be deterred by hundreds of volts of searing pain or moral lessons. Again and again we lunged for our presents until we at last broke through the barrier. Our greed had outlasted the collars' batteries. Our parents were disappointed but did admit that our perseverance showed grit.
The next year brought a new strategem: Mom and Dad decided to discredit the source of presents, Santa. On Christmas Eve after we were in bed and asleep, my sister and I woke up to a terrible argument in the living room. We ran out to discover our father pointing a pistol at Santa, who we found out years later was one of Dad's portly friends done up in red and ermine and carrying a bag over his shoulder. Dad was shouting at him saying, "So what are you trying to do, fat boy?! You're trying to get to my wife?! Is that it, honey?! How long have you been seeing this piece of @#$%?!" And my sister and I were wailing, "Please don't kill Santa Claus, Daddy! Please don't kill Santa!" But Dad was unmoved by our pleas and told us that Santa was a sleaze trying to break up our happy family, then turned and fired two shots at Santa (blanks, of course). My sister and I were momentarily stunned and horrified, but as soon as Santa had hit the floor, my sister looked at me and said, "You check the bag, and I'll get the toys from the sleigh." Then it was my parents turn to be stunned and horrified.
Eventually, my parents turned to drastic steps, strapping my sister and me into chairs and forcing us to watch "Waltons" reruns for 96 hours straight. Though that failed to completely cure us -- we became greedy for grimey overalls and stick-and-ball toys -- our parents began to see hope. By the next Christmas, we were able to say that maybe -- MAYBE -- Christmas wasn't all about presents.
Our parents, though, had learned a valuable lesson about holidays, the mysterious beings they bring along and their customs. Easter, they decided, would not be like Christmas. And so throughout our childhood every Saturday before Easter, my sister and I were served the same meal: rabbit stew.
posted by John Parnell at 2:34 PM
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