The Real Santa Claus

Merry Christmas to my awe-inspiring Mom, who was and remains the only true Santa in my life!

It Sure Didn’t Seem Like Christmas

Late Christmas Day, strung out on candy canes and chocolate Santas, Mark moped in the family room. He was dismayed over not getting the drum set that he wanted. In a sulky voice, to no one in particular, he announced:
“It sure didn’t seem like Christmas.”
Mom heard every word.
Normally unflappable, Mom gave it to Mark with both barrels. How could he be so self-centered, thoughtless, and unappreciative? The spoiled little ingrate! Mark cowered on the couch. I froze nearby, as did Dad, Libby, and Johnny. Good behavior was paramount on Christmas, and everyone in our family of six was stunned to have a role in this not-very-Christmas-y scene.

Missing Ingredient

Mom knew what to do. She found a peanut-butter cookie recipe with precisely 12 ingredients. She mixed and baked a dozen cookies, omitting one ingredient per cookie. Mom then arranged and labeled the cookies, each quite unique, in a display box.
I toted this science project to school. When the science-fair winners were announced, I took first place for the second grade! I treasured the blue ribbon and seeing my photo (“Future Scientist”) in the local newspaper.
For the third-grade science fair, Mom experimented with egg yolks. I won first place again! With a pinch of guilt, once more I sopped up the prestige reserved exclusively for the winner’s-circle crowd.

Short Fuse

As he rebuilt his mini-bike, I stepped into the garage.
“Get out!” said Mark, not looking up.
“I don’t have to,” I said. “It’s my garage too. I can be here if I want.”
The exchange intensified. I threatened to tell Mom. Infuriated, he yelled: “I’m going to pound you!”
I delivered my below-the-belt taunt: “I’m a faster runner than you, so good luck catching me!”
Looking wounded, he seethed: “Only because I broke my leg in the first grade!”
I sprinted across our front lawn. Mark was close behind, but I was not afraid. I had gotten his goat, which was fiendishly exhilarating, and that was all that mattered.

Secret Agents

At the neighborhood swim club, we used pens to “open channel D” and interface with one another. Acting out the “Man from U.N.C.L.E” TV series, Sandy was the dark-haired Napoleon Solo to my towheaded Illya Kuryakin.
In the chlorinated water, we employed another espionage device, the swim mask. Inconspicuously, we swam near teenage girls, studied their breasts, and then regrouped in the shallow end to exchange findings.
When a voluptuous girl walked toward the locker room, we shadowed her. Catlike, we waited in the changing stall next to her shower stall. When she ran the water, we peered over and soaked up as much as our spying eyes could absorb.

Animal Noises

“Quit making animal noises,” said Dad, behind the wheel.
I did my chimpanzee call. Mark cawed like a crow.
“Stop,” said Dad, “or I’m going to let you two out.”
We continued.
He pulled over, and said: “Get out!”
“John,” said Mom, incredulous. “You can’t just dump them.”
Though Dad’s move was embarrassingly amateurish, it was unsettling. Mark and I revealed no concern, however, and ran into a grassy field.
Our Chevy wagon pulled forward several feet before stopping. Mom’s window framed her worried face.
Dad got out, and yelled: “Get back in!”
All the way home, the front seat was silent. The back seat was perfectly hushed as well.

Kitchen Passage

Mobilized in the hallway, my older brothers and I heard rapid-fire ice clinking and a constant barrage of uproarious laughter. Cigarette smoke clogged the air and impaired our visibility. We moved deeper into party territory. Our mission: To capture party food and drink without talking to any adults. This was a hazardous operation, which required crossing the treacherous tiled foyer. The only passage into the kitchen, this entryway was adjacent to a living room overrun with party guests. In final attack position, we awaited Johnny’s order to commence the ground offensive. Though the risks were considerable, it was the spoils—mixed nuts, chips, Coke, and 7-Up—that beckoned us forward.

Barry the Teenager

Mark and I watched Barry the teenager wash his car. After buffing it with a chamois, he offered to take us for a ride. He perched us on the trunk, and then slowly drove forward on his driveway. Though electrified, we soon realized that we had nothing to hold onto. When Barry gently braked, Mark’s face smashed into the rear window. Clutching his mouth, Mark started crying. Barry got out, cautiously lowered us down, and said he was sorry. Mark ran home. Not knowing what to do, I ran home too. Mom, angry, said we were not to go to Barry’s house again. He was too old for us, period.

Chew Toys

I boosted myself up on the fence, and peered into our back neighbors’ yard. Earlier that day, their German shepherd, Binkie, had pummeled our dog, George. After biting at each other through the fence’s wooden slats, George stumbled away, his bloody mouth and nose pierced with redwood splinters.
Seeing no Binkie, I dropped down, grabbed the stray ball, and chucked it back over. I then heard ferocious snarling. Heart pounding, I hoisted myself back up and over. In my own yard, I felt a throbbing pain in my heel. Looking down toward my Keds sneaker, I could see that my white sock was drenched with blood.
Binkie: 2
Us: 0

Saved by the Rug!

I knew that I was about to get spanked. As Mom stormed in my direction, I curled up in the far corner of my twin bed and braced myself. She was fuming mad and I was going to get it. Before she could reach me, however, she slipped and fell on the small shag rug on my bedroom floor. I dared not laugh, even though it was the funniest pratfall I’d ever seen. The look of indignity on her face was striking. I didn’t say a word, and neither did she. She was so humiliated that she just got back on her feet, turned around, and left. I was spared!

Snacking: A Study in Contrast

After-school snacks at Sandy’s house included Lay's potato chips and Oreo cookies. After pouring hand-squeezed lemonade, her mother joined us at the kitchen table, rapt to hear all. She was especially curious about my older sister’s dates and whether my dad got a raise like Sandy’s dad. While Sandy shushed her mom, I sponged up the celebrity treatment.
Snacks at my house were mostly inferior store brands. Mom, a graduate student, was engrossed in her studies. So Sandy and I created “peanut butter” with crushed peanuts and margarine. We next stirred Fig Newton chunks into rocky-road ice cream. While I craved Coca-Cola, Sandy delighted in having the kitchen to ourselves.

True Calling

On the front cover of our folders, my third-grade teacher asked us to draw a picture of how we looked that day. I easily sketched and colored in a girl with yellow hair in a red dress, wearing a Monkees badge.
On the back cover, my teacher then asked us to draw ourselves as adults. I was perplexed. Teacher? Stewardess? Nurse? Secretary? Housewife? None of the girl choices were inspiring. I settled, however, and began penciling in a nurse’s hat with a red cross. Then it came to me! With great fervor, I erased the nurse’s hat and then sketched and colored in the ideal adult me: a Go-Go Dancer!

Too Hot to Handle!

We fourth-grade girls assembled in Sandy’s fort, high up in her garage rafters. Together we leafed through the Playboy magazines that Cecilia lifted from her dad. We debated the merits of various playmates, cut out our favorites, and then glued them into binder-paper scrapbooks.
Back in my pink bedroom, I hid my steamy scrapbook under the rug. I next envisioned Mom noticing the bulge and questioning me about her discovery. Realizing that I simply could not account for why I possessed such a booklet, I tore it up. And when no one was looking, I darted out to our garbage can and sprinkled my paper shreds into the stinking mix.

Suburban Strife

On the front lawn next door, I saw Mark and Clay tussling. Clay’s father came out. He smiled, and urged Clay to sock Mark harder. When he lifted Clay onto Mark’s back, saying: “Get him like this!” I ran for help.
“Clay and Mr. Babcock are beating up Mark!” I shouted, bolting in the house. Libby, outraged, tore out of there. I followed.
“Stop it!” Libby yelled. The fight stopped. She faced Mr. Babcock: “Aren’t you ashamed? A grown man! Not only not stopping the fight, but encouraging it!”
A cold war ensued. When the Babcock’s eventually sold their house and boxed up their possessions, no one even said good-bye.

Sensitivity Training

Munger told us that he had something important to tell us. Standing before our class, he was solemn. He would really rather not tell us, he said, because it was private. He then uttered words like colon cancer and surgery and intestinal rerouting. He worried that his colostomy bag might rupture—it happened on rare occasions—and he didn’t want to wait until then to reveal his condition to us.
Seated in front of him, we fifth graders appeared to be discreet and compassionate. The minute we were let out for recess, however, we roared amongst ourselves:
“Munger poops out of his stomach!”
“Eeew!”
“Munger poops in a bag!”
“Gross!”

Accessories

Shortly after Libby departed for school, Mom handed me my older sister’s Barbie case. Mom instructed me to be exceptionally careful with Libby’s prized doll and attendant wardrobe. She also beseeched me not to disclose our little arrangement to anyone.
Though I did my preschooler best, my fine-motor skills were crude. I especially couldn’t manage Barbie’s teensy accessories—her pink-plastic brush and comb set and her multicolored pumps. All the little pieces just scattered away from me, shooting across the family-room floor and vanishing under the couch. As the dog gnawed on a miniature tennis racquet, I tried frantically to gather everything back up. But it was just too hard.

Call of the Wild

After getting yelled at by my parents, I pouted alone on the patio. Then, coming from Johnny’s window, I heard: Quack! Quack! Quack! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! I looked over, and there was Johnny, blowing out laughs on his duck call — the very duck call that I had given him!
“Stop it!” I said, between sobs. “You’re mean!”
His voice oozed mockery: “Aw, did you get in trouble?”
I wanted to stomp on both him and that duck call. He towered over me, however, with a wit to match. So I ran to the far corner of our yard. Though I plugged my ears, I could still hear the incessant quacking.

Catholic Girl

I got invited to attend mass with the neighbor girl, Joanne. Determined to do it up right, I piously draped Mom’s black-lace scarf over my hair. I later tagged along to confession. When Joanne emerged after divulging sins to her priest, I blurted out: “What happened?”
Profoundly sincere, I approached Mom: “Can I be a Catholic?”
“You can decide what you want to be when you grow up,” she said, keeping a straight face.
While waiting for adulthood, I resolved to continue seeking divine inspiration from The Sound of Music and The Flying Nun. I also asked Joanne a lot of questions, like: “Is it grape juice or real wine?”

The Experienced Camper

As the only experienced camper in my Girl Scout troop, I took the lead in collecting firewood. While others grossed-out over banana slugs, I remained steadfast. Together, we sang jubilantly around the campfire: “Carry me ackee, go Linstead Market, not a quattie would sell.” Finally, in our sleeping bags, my tent-mates drifted off like cherubs. I lay awake, however, completely unhinged.
I made my first of many journeys to the troop leaders’ tent that night:
“I’m scared.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I hear weird noises.”
The list went on.
Seeing me in the morning, the troop leaders smirked. They then snickered amongst themselves about “the experienced camper.”