A Twas Story

Well, I did it. I survived another Christmas. Death by Christmas was not something I feared as I was reluctantly herded--like sheep to a shearing--into the 2013 holiday season. Oh, no. I felt pretty confident that I'd be living through it, just like I lived through it last year and the year before that and the year before that and the year, well, you get my point.  My fear was about maintaining my mental equilibrium and my ability to avoid the frenzied hordes of holiday shoppers who are out of touch with the real reason for the season. My fear was about keeping melancholy at bay because my family lives hundred of miles way and my holding it together until the jolly fat man and his reindeer were safe and sound back at the North Pole.

I don't hate Christmas. I just dislike it immensely. Christmas hasn't always been on my bucket list of things I DON'T want to do. When I was a little girl I loved Christmas. That was a wonderful time. The coming together of family and friends, the celebration of Jesus Christ's birthday, a twenty-four hour grace period when the words "love thy neighbor as thyself" had real meaning.  It was also a time when all of the adults in my life lied about who had really put my presents under the tree. It was magical, glorious, enchanting until ...

"THERE AIN'T NO SANTA CLAUS!!"

I was nine-years-old and curled up under my favorite blanket on the couch. Ten-year-old Tommy was on the floor in front of me, and we were watching cartoons after school at our babysitter's house. Without provocation, he jumped up, sat down on top of me, pulled my thumb out of my mouth, and spit in my face as he yelled, "THERE AIN'T NO SANTA CLAUS!!"

"There ain't no Santa Claus?" I cried. "But, but, but, all of the adults in my life said there was. They wouldn't lie to me." Tommy was the liar. He had to be. Every member of my family was a devout Christian and everyone knows that Christians don't lie. So I continued to believe until...

"There ain't no Santa Claus!!" I said to my mother after Tommy, once again, denied his existence. This time, I thought there was a possibility he could be right. I mean, really? A miniature sleigh, eight tinny reindeer and one big fat man? Besides, we didn't have a fireplace.

"Well, of course, there isn't," she said, matter of fact.

"But, but, but, you told me there was and I believed you."

"Carol Louise, you're ten. Surely, somebody has told you by now that Santa Claus isn't real."

And that was that. End of discussion. Myth busted. You're a big girl now, so get over it. (That same harsh dose of reality--the real truth vs. the fake truth--happened again two years later when I discovered, much to my horror, that my mother had also lied about where babies came from, and it had nothing to do with flying storks. But that's another story for another time.)

Here's a Twas story that I wrote recently while waiting in a two-hour long return line at Walmart.

Twas four months before Christmas,

 when all through the land,

not a merchant was idle, 

not even the club called Sam's.

The stockings from Christmas prior

 that were hung by my chimney with care

were barely put away in the sock drawer

 when over the loud speaker at Lowes I hear,

 "Merry Christmas ya'll, register 5 is clear."

Away from the store I ran in horror,

tore open my car door,

and threw up on the floor.

When out in the lawn center

there arose such a clatter.

I spring from the floorboard

to see what was the matter.

The Christmas trees were nestled
 all snug in a bunch,

while workers left them there
 and headed out for lunch.

That's all I have. The return line went faster than I expected. I'm not a poet and I know it. In fact, I dislike poems almost as much as Christmas. Ba Hum Bug, ya'll.