THIS IS definitely one of my favorite stories to tell. As a little piece of trivia, it is one of the first articles I wrote for the Times. I must’ve also requested they reprint it twice before, thus making this its third time to see print. The story catches a glimpse of the old days, which the generations X, Z, and A might find amusing. Furthermore, and more importantly, this should come with a spoiler alert for the younger kids, or maybe not. Here goes…
I will never forget that particular Christmas Eve. That year in the 60s, all five of us boys weren’t too keen on looking for goodies under the Christmas tree in the corner because we knew there wasn’t going to be anything there.
Even on the days leading up to the 25th, I had purposely avoided looking in that direction, simply blocking the view with whatever I had in my hand. That year, the music died, so to speak, and we were all to blame.
You see, growing up, we were nurtured in the belief that a grand (meaning fat) old man who lived in the North Pole, cut across the whole globe on Christmas day, riding a sleigh pulled by magical flying reindeer, bearing your requested toys of choice. All on the condition that you were good.
I even remember during some earlier Christmas eves, the maids would blurt out gleefully, “Oh, you just missed him, he was here a minute ago!” And they did it every year. For days on end, I would always play out in my mind how foolish I was for not waking up earlier then. I was so hung up on Santa that even in school, I was always one of the prime defenders of his existence. I had toys to prove it, too!
Well, back to that fateful Christmas. Weeks before, my brothers and I were playing hide-and-seek, and two of us decided to go inside our mom’s wardrobe cabinet. We’ve been through that routine before; dove into the folded clothes and covered yourself until you were nearly invisible.
This time, however, we felt a crumple of boxes in the usual hiding place. Lo and behold, toys of various sizes lay before us! Like lions upon a prey, our hiding game was halted at once, and we all sat down and sorted our precious find.
The help enters and discovers why we’ve become silent all of a sudden. The knife of “wait till your mother finds out” cut the air from out of us, even as we hurriedly put everything back in their exact place. I could no longer recall what time of day it was, but the hours leading up to my mother’s arrival from the office were like, well, torture and endless.
Now, it is important to note that, unlike today’s justice system, the decision of the judge on duty on that December day was swift and almost clinical. My mother (I imagined thunder and lightning) had said firmly, “All these go back to Borgaily’s, and there’s no Christmas gifts for you this year!”
I think that was the end of childhood for all five of us. I cannot recall any Christmases after that that involved a delivery from the North Pole. That was it, us five, I like to think, moved on, I guess.
After all, there were so many other months to get crazy about. Besides, adolescence also crept in. We all let it go, but as the memes of today would affirm, my childhood had been a lie. Until now, we brothers have not fully processed the event of that Christmas, much less talked about it. One thing is sure, though, I have never heard any of them mention St. Nick ever.
