On Christmas Eve, the men at the Cabin John Volunteer Fire Department get juiced up and drive one of the fire engines around the neighborhood, decorated with garlands and blaring Christmas music. A very jolly Santa waves from the back of the truck and shouts, “Ho, ho, ho! Meeeeeerry Christmas,” in a hoarse voice. He seems to be in constant danger of falling off the vehicle as he sways back and forth. Is that a bottle in his hand?
Our four stockings hang on the handsome mantel of the fireplace made of river stones from the Potomac. Mom has sewn all the stockings. Mine is made of gold fabric with a little fuzzy green tree sewn on.
We are not supposed to wake Mom and John on Christmas morning until 8:00 a.m. We are allowed to take down our stockings and go back to our rooms to rummage through the contents and stay occupied. I’m done with my stocking in 10 minutes, and so are the boys.
Invariably, it’s only 7:00 by the time we have exhausted the charms of our stockings and comparisons of our stuff. There is an unspoken pact between us to start making noise. We know we can’t wake Mom up with our antics, she’s too deaf. So, we need an accomplice. John is the perfect stooge.
Every Christmas is memorable in it's own way.
Oops! I just knocked over the laundry hamper right outside their door. Yikes! Jake didn’t mean to slam the door of the chest. It’s an old pie safe and the metal panels rattle. A little inter-sibling squabbling in the hall outside their door goes a long way.
Eventually John comes to the door. He’s looking a little bit worse for wear after celebrating Christmas Eve with potent eggnog and the ever present extra dry vodka martinis on the rocks with a twist. But he acknowledges our efforts with understanding and says he’ll bring Mom down in a minute. Har! Try 20 minutes or a half hour.
We have assembled the already opened small toys that are a must for Christmas Day. One is the mineral growth kit. You fill the tank with water and solution, then put in the crystals. Within a few minutes, they start growing and by the end of the day you will have small canyons of color.
The other item is the dipping bird. You set it up with a glass of water and dip the fuzzy beak into it. Once started it will go up and down for hours.
We are trained not to rip into our presents. Each person is handed a gift. When everyone has one, we open them one by one so each can be admired. For some years, the boys and I are in an imagination rut. They give me hideous perfumes from Sears, like Emeraude. The only safe way to wear it is to spray it into the air, wait a few moments, then run through the diminishing cloud of stinky mist.
I feel I do a better job with the boys. Eddie and Jake get British Sterling and English Leather cologne, and once English Leather soap on a rope. You can at least put these on without elaborate efforts to make them tolerable. Ty gets another cheap toy.
Every Christmas is memorable in its own way.
My mother has splurged on a rechargeable flashlight for John, quite a fancy gift for our budget. On seeing it, Ty jumps up and grabs the flashlight from John’s hand.
“I know how this works,” he shouts, as he rushes to the bookcase before anyone can stop him. Between the books is an electrical outlet. He shoves the flashlight plug into it and is rewarded by a large explosion, which makes him stagger backward but happily does not singe his eyebrows or set the books on fire. All of us are momentarily stunned, then the other kids start laughing raucously, even Eddie, John puts his head in his hands, and Mom sputters impotently.
John has held the flashlight for less than 60 seconds.
Another time, we have finished with our presents and have a pile of wrapping paper. We decide to burn it in the fireplace. This is pre-recycling. We’re pushing paper into the fire like a bunch of pyromaniacs, when there’s a knock on the front door.
It’s Junior’s daughter. “Y’all know there’s fire comin’ outcher chimney, mebbe four or five foot tall?”
Oh. When was the last time that chimney’s been cleaned? Ever?
We bank the fire as quickly as we can. Slowly the flames leaping out of the chimney settle down. Another Christmas disaster averted.
Then when I’m 13, I open a gift from Jake and am horrified by what I see: a bra slip. Whaaaaaa? I am mortified. What could he be thinking?
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