Old Friends & Flowers on Memorial Day

 

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Where to read Mozart's Wife

Perennials are my favorites. I can't claim to be a master gardener, but I do love to put my hands in the dirt and grow things.

Walking around the yard this spring, I'm pleased with all the color. We're past even the latest daffodils here in PA, but it's Memorial Day now and so the peonies are going great guns, as well as the irises and various other plants whose names my brain has misfiled. Perhaps I have forgotten the names, but I know that they come back reliably this time of year and that they have a delicate fragrance that I enjoy when I'm sitting on the porch. 

Many of my plants were gifts but ever so many of the givers are now dead. Each time I gaze at those  plants, blooming away with all their might, I think of the nice folks who shared them with me and I am grateful. 

Emily was one of the prolific givers. An athletic, charismatic red head, she and her equally good-looking husband Ray had a lovely down-a-country-road property. Over the years, Emily, who undertook nothing she did by halves, had turned their surroundings into a show place, with a stellar Koi pond surrounded by and ornamented with plants. There were the expected cattails and water lilies, but the papyrus she brought home from the nursery was a revelation, as I'd never actually seen a living breathing specimen before.

Over the years all the local wildlife found the pond, from deer to leopard frogs and tree toads. These little guys hatched in the water, then climbed, for the next part of their life cycle, into the nearby trees. They filled spring twilight evenings with their sweet quivering choruses. Herons came too, enraging Emily because they didn't just eat the frogs out of the pond, but her enormous Koi. 

We were visiting one night, enjoying their company on the deck--they worked together in their auto dealership and had a big supply of "people are crazy" stories--when suddenly Emily shouted, leapt up and ran, an Amazon screaming curses, towards the pond. It was all explained in a flash, when an enormous blue heron, his long, yellow landing gear still dangling, executed an emergency take-off. I'd never seen one of these big birds so close, and certainly never one with a large, flapping red and white Koi in his narrow beak!

                                                

These peonies came from Emily, who told me a long story about her favorite Aunt Pard, whose flower garden and warm presence she remembered with equal pleasure. These were the old-fashioned kind of peony, no ginormous blooms, but, instead, a fragrance you don't often find in modern cultivars. These peonies were not happy in her yard, but, for some inexplicable reason they loved mine. Consequently, over the years, I've split them many times. Now they perform their brief, bright celebration of May in many groupings all over my yard--and they do smell sweet! 

Today, enjoying the flowers, I remembered this couple, their out doors parties--blazing fires under 60 foot oaks, and barbecue-potlucks that lasted all night, their hunter's venison feasts and the annual trout opening day Bacchanalia begun before dawn, just behind their house on the rushing, brown Quittaphilia. So many laughter-filled, good-company evenings with them! 

Now, astonishingly, these active, vital people are both gone. Like many long-married couples, Ray followed his Em to the grave within 6 months. Although they are no more, I have these lovely peonies to always remind me of them both.

~~Juliet Waldron

Where to buy Mozart's Wife

It's the Most Stressful Time of the Year by Stuart R. West

Warm your holidays up with some chills!

Sing with me, everyone! Huzzah! The holidays are nearly over!

No more fruitcakes (no, no, not the food...that ONE uncle. Yeah, you know which one I'm talking about). Say goodbye to the wrasslin' wranglers of the store aisles, the ones who give soccer players a run for their money. So long to false smiles when you open a box of tighty-whities (I killed the snickers when I threatened to model them). And no more uncomfortable hugs. Especially uncomfortable hugs.

I think I'm the only one who has a problem knowing when to hug. Hugging protocol isn't in my armory. In my family, if you accidentally touch someone, the knee-jerk reaction is to jump like an Olympic kangaroo. Yet, there's my wife's family, the huggin'-est family around. No problem with that, as I love 'em all, truly I do. I think it's nice, actually. So I studied and watched them. Maybe it's an Oklahoma thing, I naively thought.  When the Fed Ex man rang the doorbell, I put what I'd learned into play, welcoming him with a big ol' bear hug.

Well, turns out I still have a bit more to learn.

Anyway, Christmas time. I used to look forward to the holiday. Not so much anymore. Call me a curmudgeon or a realist, I'm okay with both.

Several years back, our Christmas was different in many ways. For instance, I only heard the cloying "Santa Baby" song whenever we went shopping. Usually it's a mainstay that digs into your head like a dentist's drill. But on Christmas day, the song of choice seemed to be "Let It Snow,"  a song I loath because the sentiment is treasured only by children and drunk television weathermen. Obviously the singer lives in Florida.

This particular holiday was filled with more than its fair share of excitement, not the particularly good, cozy gather-around-the-fireplace type, either.

A niece I adore decided to get married on December 21st in Midwest Kansas, home of winter blizzards. So, that Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m. (my wife's a hard-charger), we set off for Hays, attempting to stay one step ahead of "Storm (I think they named it) Dumbledore." You know, the storm that blew the socks off everyone in the States (Canada, I'm looking at you!).

We got there okay, albeit bleary-eyed, delirious, and pumped up on caffeine and sugar. My daughter woke up in the back seat, yawned, and with a happily contented tone said, "Wow, that trip wasn't so bad." Even though she was 21 at the time, I I still grounded her for life.

BOOM! Flat tire after lunch. 22 degrees outside. (Merry Christmas, everybody!) Freezing, yet determined to show my masculine side, I changed the tire in, say, fifty-five minutes. Much cursing ensued. Icing on the cake? My wife ("accidentally," she says) kicked me in the nose. Grease-stained, sniffing, and broken-nosed, we're just in time for wedding pictures.

The next morning (6:30 a.m. again) I'm dreary and suffering a bad back from the lousy hotel bed. And the ice machine, birthing baby cubes right outside our door, kept us up all night. (Happy Horror-days!) But I pulled up my big-boy britches 'cause it was time to go to Oklahoma to celebrate Christmas with my wife's family. 

At one stretch, the highway was covered with huge chunks and stalactites of snow. It felt like we were four-wheeling (it's a Midwest thing, folks, don't worry about it). And we nearly got stuck in the parking lot of a "Pilot" store getting gas.

And these stores...you know, I never knew there was such a variety of "quick in and out stores." I think we visited them all across the Midwest. There was the aforementioned "Pilot," the downtrodden "Stop-Shop (home of the world's filthiest bathrooms)," numerous "Kum-n-Go's (tee-hee)," and, of course, my personal new favorite discovery, "The Wood Shed." I'm telling you, "The Wood Shed" is Nirvana. It's what the Stuckey's of my childhood used to be. Their logo is great, a Beaver or something glaring at you with googly eyes. When you open the door--just like a carnival funhouse--a ginormous fan blasts you with a ghostly groan and a seriously threatening whirlwind of heat. (While I was waiting for my wife, I amused myself by watching newcomers freak out when they crossed the Barrier of the Damned.)  After you survive tornado alley, a giant blow-up snowman with an evil grin looms over you! Fantastic! And the bathrooms...the glorious, wondrous, old-fashioned, smelly bathrooms with antiquated machines boasting of  mysterious treasures such as "Big Wally" and other enticing sundries. Plus there was a plethora of crap for tourists to get suckered into. Gave me Christmas chills.

Then the trip turned nightmarish. My wife ran over a red squirrel in the highway. His eyes still haunt me. Took me seconds to shake it...

Had a great time with my wife's family. But I was sleep-deprived and loopy the whole time (kinda' like how I was during college). I found myself drifting off on many occasions--taking a Scrooge-like trippy side-trip--looking down on the proceedings as if I'd died or something. Maybe I did for a minute. With a turkey leg in my mouth.

Finally...it was over! And this Christmas shall to come to pass.

Merry Christmas everyone and God help us one and all!

In fact, you know what I think? I think Peculiar County would look mighty nice under a Christmas Tree this year... 

Click For Thrills, Chills, Mystery, Nostalgia, Romance, and Laughs

Decorating with Dad by Eileen O'Finlan

Find buy links to this book on my Books We Love author page

This Christmas will mark the twenty-second time we’ve celebrated the holiday since my dad passed away at the age of sixty-six.  My family is big into holidays.  When I was a kid the house was decorated for every one of them, even the minor ones.  Christmas, though, was the ultimate.  No one got more into the decorating than my dad.  He turned our home into Christmas Land, inside and out.

Christmas decorating got underway once we’d returned from Thanksgiving weekend at my grandparents’ home in Bennington, Vermont.  Dad was in a festive mood after several days of feasting and visiting with a houseful of relatives.

First the living room had to be rearranged.  Over the years Dad, an engineer by trade, developed a strategy for furniture placement.  One layout was for Christmas, the other for the rest of the year.  It wasn’t just the furniture, either.  Knick-knacks and whatnots all over the house exchanged living quarters with the Christmas decorations boxed and stored in the basement.

Once the room was rearranged, the tree set securely in its stand and watered (until we switched to artificial trees), the most difficult and least fun part began - stringing the lights and garland.  Extra bulbs were kept on hand since if one went out they all went out. That meant testing every bulb on the string until the culprit was found, replacing it, and hoping that one worked.  Heaven help us if more than one bulb went out at the same time.  Dad wasn’t much for swearing, but those bulbs were almost guaranteed to elicit a few words more colorful than the lights. 

My sister, Cindy, and I endured the interminable wait in order to pounce the moment Dad finished.  It was our job to help hang the tinsel and ornaments.  We delighted at seeing these old friends that had been out-of-sight, out-of-mind for a year, especially the ones that hung on the trees of my mom’s childhood.  My favorite was a set of three delicate, sparkly silver shoes each with a tiny child inside representing Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.  Mom and Dad joined in the tree trimming while we all sang along with the Christmas albums on the record player.

Once the tree was completed, we moved to the rest of the room.  The top of the huge black and white TV was large enough to hold the snow village.  Each house and the church were painted cardboard fitted with a light bulb making their colored cellophane windowpanes glow.  There were decorated pine trees and elves made of pinecones, pipe cleaners and felt.  Flimsy it may have been, but it was cherished.  A tinkerer at heart, Dad kept adding to the village.  A mirror became a skating pond, tiny lamp posts graced the “street”.  The village eventually outgrew the TV top and had to move to a new location.

A gold bell that played Silent Night hung from one doorway, mistletoe from another.  A lighted church sat on the end table on top of sparkly white cotton batting emulating snow and surrounded by Nativity vignettes.  Mr. and Mrs. Claus stood on either side of the fireplace.  The last thing to be displayed was the crèche.  I loved the smell of the papier mache figures and the soft glow from the blue light illuminating Mary’s robe.  In the weeks to come I would spend hours playing with the crèche as if it were a doll house.

Not a room escaped decoration.  Every window had a candle either on the sill or hanging inside a red wreath.  Even the bathroom had a bubble lamp and a candle in the window.

Then came the outside.  A large plastic lantern, later to be replaced by a Santa, brightened the front porch.  Dad strung colored lights along the porch railing and throughout the hedge in front of the house.  After a heavy snowfall red, blue, yellow, green, and purple lights shone through giving the hedge an otherworldly glow.

There was no such thing as too many Christmas decorations as far as Dad was concerned.  Over the years, he made tree ornaments including drums and sleds with each of our names on them.  He outdid himself the year he made a perpetual calendar.  The scene at the top was attached with Velcro and could be changed with the seasons.  Naturally, the Christmas scene was the best.  It was a miniature replica of our living room right down to the same wallpaper and the clock and candlesticks on our fireplace mantel.

 

 

With the decorating complete, our home was transformed.  Every day of the Christmas season I played in the wonderland of my own personal Christmas Village.  Every night glowed with colorful splendor.  The saddest for me was the weekend after New Year’s when everything came down, packed away in the basement, the magic gone, the house returned to normal.  It was like waking up from the best ever dream.

Since Dad’s been gone, I decorate the house.  Though my taste is a bit different from my dad’s, I seem to have inherited his love for holiday decorating. I still move furniture, to give the tree pride of place.  I miss the smell of papier mache from the long lost crèche, my current one being made of sturdier material.  I love to sit in the living room in the evening, gazing at the lights on the tree, the one remaining Wynken, Blynken and Nod ornament always prominent.  I can feel Dad’s presence in the quiet of the evening.  Our styles are very different, but unlike me, he was decorating for kids.  His joy came as much from the glee his efforts brought to us as from his own enjoyment of the holiday.  I think he is smiling with me as I create my grownup version of Christmas Land.  And I’m certain he would appreciate the invention of pre-strung lights on the Christmas tree.

How movies have changed—or is it just me? Tricia McGill

Find buy links to this and all my other books here on my Books We Love Author page 

I watched a movie recently that brought back a load of memories. Its title is, ‘Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool’ and came as a complete surprise to me. I had no idea what it was about, or who starred in it until I began to watch it. Annette Bening portrayed Gloria Grahame in the final stages of her life.  Her lover Peter Turner was 26 when she met him and she was already in her 50s, had four children and four husbands behind her. This movie was adapted from Peter’s memoirs and despite its gloominess and sadness at the end, I found it an enchanting story. Their love was so poignant and convincing, and apparently caused quite a stir. Jamie Bell, who stole many hearts as Billy Elliot, plays Peter. Coincidentally Julie Walters who played his dance teacher in that movie plays his mother in this one and for me stole every scene she appeared in.

This movie took me off on another jaunt down memory lane. Oklahoma was my favourite that Gloria appeared in. I recall her as the blonde with the unusual pout. My whole family were avid movie goers as well as avid readers and one or the other of them was always off to the ‘pictures’ as we called the cinema. I recall my two oldest sisters going off to see Fanny by Gaslight. I also recall they considered me too young and innocent to see what they thought a ‘scandalous’ film. During my teens one sister, who was still at home after the others had married, and I often went to the cinema two or three times a week, paying one shilling and nine pence for a seat. 

Some of the movies we saw stand out in my mind forever, and some were considered Greats. Strangers on a Train springs to mind, simply because it starred Farley Granger, who I had a crush on at the time. Many younger people reading this have likely never heard of him. But I guarantee you know of greats like James Dean, John Wayne, Marlon Brando, James Stewart, Clark Gable, Doris Day, Janet Leigh, Elizabeth Taylor, to mention a few—my list could go on and on. One of my favourite actresses was Susan Hayward. We never hear much of her now, but I will never forget With a Song in my Heart.

Do a search for 1950s movies and you will see the list is endless and full of greats. I remember my sister and I queuing in the rain to see Bing Crosby in The Bells of St. Mary’s which coincidentally I watched only recently on TV masterpieces. And let’s not forget Disney’s early greats like Bambi and Dumbo. Often there would be ‘standing room only’ at the cinema, which meant we would stand along the sidewall until somebody vacated a seat. Oft times my sister and I would not end up sitting side by side. In those days, there would be no long breaks between programmes and some folk would stay to see a movie through again, which often meant a long stand on the side aisle. Musicals were always my favourite. Movies like Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, High Society, Guys and Dolls, The King and I.

https://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2017/06/the-100-best-films-of-the-1950s.html

Getting back to my original question, have movies changed. Of course they have. We’ve gone from love scenes that invariably ended with a fade-out after the first kiss, to show it all sex scenes that in my honest opinion have gone too far. I much prefer to use my imagination. There is so much technology used nowadays that it is often mind-boggling. Don’t get me wrong, I love it and if I was born just 20 years ago that’s the industry I would choose. I am full of admiration for the creators of movies like Guardians of the Galaxy and its successor Guardians Vol 2, both currently my favourites. Not only is the technical stuff amazing, but I just love the little critters who make the movie so amusing and likeable. 

Being a Sci-Fi fan, I am in awe of the sheer splendour at how the producers make it all come to life on the screen. What doesn’t please me about modern movies are the car crashes and/or shoot ups that often use up the first 30 minutes or so of the movie, and then often 80 per cent of the entire film.

That’s me and my opinion. I know that many of my friends are of the same mind. You can’t understand what half the actors are saying and they should take a lesson from actors like Richard Burton who had perfect diction and made your toes curl with his magnificent voice. And likewise, Sir Laurence Olivier. And don’t get me started on the sound tracks—why are they so loud, half the time drowning out the voices of the actors? 

Ah well, as they say, “To Each His Own”. Come to think on it, wasn’t that an old black and white movie with Olivia de Havilland and John Lund?

To find more info on all my books visit my web page.

When to Put a Stake into Santa by Stuart R. West

Click for comedy, suspense and the world's greatest tear-away pants!

Every year around this time, my family invariably finds themselves wrapped up in the same holiday conundrum: When is it time to quit playing at Santa Claus?

Oh, sure, I know some of you are of the mind-set that you're never to old to believe in the magic of Santa Claus and all that eggnog-inspired hoo-hah. But notice I said "playing" at Santa Claus and not "believing."

My parents kept up the Santa mythos for a long time. An embarrassingly long time. We were well into college and my folks would stay up late on Christmas Eve, secretly wrapping Santa's gifts, and always leaving one half-eaten cookie on the cookie tray. Fooling no one. My brothers and I went along with it, rolling our eyes, goofing on it good-naturedly.

But when we saw how tired Mom looked, it was time to put a stake into Santa's giving heart. We told her enough's enough and just how old did she think we were anyway? My Mom was hesitant, big on tradition, but short on the cold, hard truth.

Which is kinda sad, really. Not for us, not for we "kids." But it was heartbreaking for my mom. Clearly, she enjoyed the exhausting ritual more than we did.

I also think it's sad that kids today have a tougher time believing in Santa. When I was growing up, all we had to stand in the path of our belief was common sense or classroom talk.

Now, kids just have to turn on their phones, and boom! They find out Santa's a myth. Plus modern kids are much more sophisticated these days, grade school minds already set on climbing corporate ladders and leaping into piles of stocks and bonds, no time for silly, antiquated traditions.

Last Christmas, my niece--the last in my family to discover the truth about Santa (and I'm not a grandfather yet; no need to rush things along!)--told me where it all went belly up for her. "Well," she said, "my friends were saying that it's just our parents pretending. Then I started thinking that it's kinda impossible for one guy to go down everyone's chimney in one night. And what's up with the Easter Bunny? That's really creepy."

She kinda had a point. A giant bunny sneaking into people's homes? Creepy. And Santa's not much better: a large man who spies on people, keeps lists, and not too far removed from the current "leader of the free world." Plus, Santa only comes out at night and breaks into people's homes. Sorta like a vampire.

So...when is it time to put a stake into Santa and kill the myth? Whenever you want to, I say. But, maybe we should first put a stake into kids' unlimited access to the internet.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel, Habari gani, happy holidays, and whatever you celebrate, may there be peace where you reside.

Gonna get coal this year? Stick something fun and light-hearted in your own stocking!

I'm SUCH a Little Girl! by Stuart R. West

Click here for The Book that has Stuart R. West in gender crisis!

After my wife read my latest book Peculiar County, she said to me, "I can't believe you were able to capture the mindset of a teenage girl so well."

Talk about a backward compliment! I mean, should I be worried? Should I hand in my Manly Man Membership card?

Maybe I'll start having sleepovers, invite all the neighborhood teen girls over. We can stay up all night, do each other's hair, talk about cute boys and boy bands. Pillow fight!

Except, well...no.

Not only do I not have any hair to braid, I don't think the neighbors would look too kindly on an old bald guy hosting a teenage sleepover.

So. Foregoing sleepovers, what are my other options?

I mean, I'm getting this kinda talk about my writing from a teen girl's perspective everywhere. Take for instance, "The Cellophane Queen," a notoriously hard-nosed book critic. Here's a snippet of her review of Peculiar County:

"The first person approach to Dibby, the 15-year-old female lead, is a highly dangerous task for a 50-something old guy, but he just dug in and channeled a perfect Dibby from 1965. This was a brilliant choice. Trying to emulate a 21st Century 15-year-old would be doomed to failure, but the 1965 version of a polite lil gal from Kansas with plenty of issues like a runaway mom and the high-school drama queen hellbent on making her life hell? Brilliant."--The Cellophane Queen review

See what I mean? Did the critic really have to bring up my *ahem* "50-something old" status? And make a big deal outta my writing from the viewpoint of a 15-year-old female?

Honestly, I just sorta wrote the lead character from an outsider's viewpoint, not too far removed from my own awful high school years. Changed things up a bit. And, frankly, anyone who's read any of my books knows the female characters are always the smarter, stronger ones.

Still, I'm scared. I've never liked sports, just kinda find them a waste of time. Bachelor parties? Feh. Who wants to go to parties without any women? And if I'm being absolutely honest right now (and I always am with you guys), I've owned a few pink shirts.

Fine. The critics have spoken. From now on, I'm only going to write books about serial-drinking, barrel-chested, bone-crunching, double-fisted, chain-smoking, hard-loving, window-smashing, refrigerator-lifting, terrible-smelling, neanderthal men! HooYAH! 

Right after I finish my planned epic series of books about Sweet Pollyanna Pourtney's New Red Velvet Shoes.


Stuart R. West's Books We Love Author's Page: http://bookswelove.net/authors/west-stuart-r/

The Pitfalls of Period Writing by Stuart R. West

To read the book that made the rest of my hair fall out, click here!

My first book with Books We Love, Ghosts of Gannaway, was a sprawling pseudo-historical thriller, romance, and ghost story set during the depression in a small Kansas mining town. Never before had I tackled such an undertaking. I spent two months alone researching. Whew.

I swore I’d never do it again.

Yet here I am currently tackling another period piece for Books We Love. This time when I jumped into the Stuart R. West time machine, I only ventured as far back as 1965. It wasn’t nearly as tough to research as Ghosts, but this book, too, had its pitfalls and traps.

Again (repeat after me): Never again!

Why’d I set my current book in 1965? The story’s a nostalgic, small town mystery and ghost story. (I ain’t nothing’ if not ambitious). By definition, nostalgia always takes place in the past or is at least a remembrance of days gone by. And, personally, my favorite ghost stories always take place in the past. Much more resonance than, say, a haunted Smart Phone.

But there I go again, breaking my vow to myself by going all old timey.

Here are the biggest problems I have while writing period pieces:

Getting the lingo right is tough. In my 1965 set book, I have a character--a real hep cat--spouting such slang as, “Whoa, daddy-o, you’re out of your tree! Your old man’s squaresville, absolutely nowhere. Let’s percolate, beat feet, get to the nitty-gritty!” I know, right? It’s really easy to overkill once I dig into the slang of the time. Granted, the character in question is a mop-topped, dangerous, cool kid, but sometimes I need to rein it in. Just a smidge, daddy-o!

Speaking of overkill, sometimes research threatens to eat my tales alive. While investigating all kinds of topics for Ghosts of Gannaway, I learned more than I could ever possibly need to know about the depression, the way men and women spoke in the ‘30’s, what happened to the Midwest Native American tribes, what folks ate, ore mining, and lots more. Anyone wanna know about the hazards of brass carbide mining lamps? No? Me neither. (But I do.)

You should’ve seen the first draft of Ghosts of Gannaway. Be thankful you didn’t. I tried to shoehorn every bit of research (and I had pages and pages of teeny-tiny, hand-written notes) into the book. There was a twelve page dissertation in the middle of the narrative about how the white colonialists drove the Native-Americans out of their lands (thank God I came to my senses, and pretty much chucked the entire sequence).

I suppose my thoughts at the time were, “Hey, we’re talking history! And I spent a heckuva long time researching this stuff to the point of having mining nightmares, so everyone’s gonna enjoy the fruits of my labors!” But I saved you a dull history lesson.

Another blockade I’ve banged my head into is racial and sexual issues. Face it, our world’s attitudes have changed a lot regarding racial equality and sexual activity. We’ve all heard the derogatory and racist terms. Yet in these sensitive and politically correct times, you’re still gonna find a reader who’ll take umbrage over the racist epithets, even if they’re historically accurate.  In Ghosts of Gannaway, I constantly questioned whether I should use accurate, yet highly insensitive name calling.  I steered away from the Big No-No Word, but everything else was game. And even though I live in Kansas, no one’s been by to lynch me yet.

Finally…sex! The big taboo! Back in the day, of course, sex between consenting, loving adults only happened between spouses. But you know what? Hollywood would have us believe differently, so what’s good enough for Hollywood is good enough for me! Let the sex begin!

There you have it, daddy-o, my bag of hang-ups regarding gone, baby, gone period writing. (I need to put this hep 60’s lingo to use somewhere.)

Santa Magic: The Adult Years by Stuart R. West

One click away from ridiculousness.

I remember the thrill of waking up on Christmas morning. The magic of a big man in a sleigh, sneaking into your house at night (in a non-threatening way, of course!), bringing good will and joy.  And toys, can’t forget the toys. There always seemed to be a strange lingering magic dust in the air, a smoke screen of wonder blurring the blinking Christmas tree lights.

When you’re young, it’s by far the best part of Christmas. No matter what anyone tells you.

But as a child, when I began to question the whole Santa Claus thing (“But…how can Santa be at this mall, when he’s at Steve’s Shoe Shack at the same time?”), realizing the absolute impossibility of it all, a part of my childhood went into hibernation. It didn’t die, just crawled into a cave for a long nap. 

My parents were hardcore about the myth of Santa Claus. Even kept it up while I was in college. No one was fooling anyone and we all knew it. But the dumber you played, the longer you indulged in the game, the more likely you’d get cool gifts. One year, my brother and I found the “secret Santa stash” in the basement, unwrapped the presents, oohed and ahhed over them. Sealed the presents shut again. Okay, fine, not very magical, but we were know-it-all, “worldly” kids (or so we thought).

Finally, we let the cat out of the bag, let my parents off the hook. Told them to cut it out. There is no Santa Claus. Hard to believe, but my mother looked sad at our revelation. And that’s when socks and underwear became the norm as gifts.

I suppose I don’t blame my mom, not really. Once your own childhood thrill is gone, you live vicariously through your children’s excitement. The circle of life.

Seeing Christmas through the eyes of my young daughter reawakened my hibernating inner child.

I lived a double life: Dad and Santa. And I thrived on it. I loved watching my daughter sit next to the tree amidst an avalanche of colorfully wrapped gifts.  Her eyes lit up as she opened her presents, wondering how the Big Man in Red knew what she wanted. (And this particular “Big Man in Red” went to a lot of effort searching for what my daughter asked for. Always the hottest, hardest to find toys. Always. I have lots of war-torn Christmas stories. But that’s a tale for another time.).

It was all worth it.

But all good things come to an end (a rather cynical saying my mother used to tell me).

One day, while pushing my daughter on the back-yard swing set (the same swing set we had the dreaded sex talk on a year or so later), she said, “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Is Santa real? Or is he, like, parents making him up and stuff? You know, sneaking around and putting gifts under the tree. Pretending.”

A quandary. I always taught her not to lie. Yet…I wanted to keep the mythology alive; if not for her, than for me. I hemmed and hawed, finally said, “Do you believe he’s real?”

“I guess.” Not really.

“Well, if you believe he’s real, then he is. Merry Christmas!” I ran quick interference, shouting, over-zealously hugging, cheek-kissing. The works. Anything to avoid telling her the truth.

Yet, I could tell, just by the way she forlornly nodded, she didn’t buy into my non-answer. The magic had dissipated, the Santa dust drifting away into an invisible cloud.

We played the game for a few more years. But we both knew the jig was up. Knowing winks were shared; smart-alecky comments were dropped whenever the mythical Man in Red came up.

A sad time, a rite of passage. Not only for children, but also for parents.

Last year, my youngest niece quit believing in Santa. Over Christmas dinner, I asked her why.

“I mean, the whole thing was kinda weird,” she explained. “How Santa could hit all the houses in the world in one night. Yeah, right.” (Her examination of the impossibilities of the Easter Bunny was even better.)

Laughter ensued. But it foretold the end of Santa magic for our family.

But my now grown daughter brought me back in.

“Dad?”

“Hm?”

“Do you believe in Santa?”

I hugged her. “You know I do.”

Bring on the next generation! 

Happy holidays, everyone!

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