Print Story St. Nicholas at Gilford
By CheeseburgerBrown (Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 03:43:43 AM EST) rolloffle (all tags)
In which we attend a village Christmas party.

Against all good reason Old Oak drove the Volvo. The fact that he had the oldest superior-style genitals of our party surpassed the danger of his being a cyclops. Despite this and the snowy season we arrived alive, and barely skirted the ditch only once.

He only drove two blocks after we told him to turn for the community centre and hockey arena where our village Christmas festivities were taking place, applying the classic geriatric braking technique known informally as too late, too hard. I peeled my face out of the leather of the chair in front of me and frowned.

"It's back there, Pop!" explained Littlestar again.

"In the gas station, ja?" asked Old Oak, squinting out his side window.

"No, two blocks behind us, Oakey!" scolded Littlestar's Mother (whom I am assured is too insecure to tolerate any kind of naming, no matter how kindly intentioned, thus she is doomed to remain Littlestar's Mother in these diaries forever; I've made suggestions, many of which I think were nothing but cute, but each one's been vetoed).

Old Oak then executed a quantum kind of decision making, almost making several manoeuvres at once and consequently not making any at all as he vacillated over the Turning Around Conundrum.

"Why don't you --" suggested Littlestar's Mother.

"Vill you quit intervering!" he snapped.

"Okay, okay," she agreed.

He squinted meaningfully and pointed his good eye forward with determination, wrenching the wheel around and making an elegant twelve-point turn in the snow. This time we were able to find the semi-hidden driveway of the arena, and we prowled the slushy parking lot while enjoying a lively debate on the likelihood of this arena being the one we were looking for (as if Lefroy, the hamlet to the north of our arena-less village, were big enough to support two arenas). The big objection seemed to be there were an awful lot of sweaty children carrying hockey equipment, which didn't seem appropriate for a Christmas party.

I closed my eyes and counted to a billion.

Littlestar's Mother, Popsicle and I waited by the entrance while Old Oak parked the car and Littlestar waddled after him to fetch something from the trunk she'd forgotten (home-made cookies, I think). She was muttering to Baby Two, who was boxing her liver for larffs.

Littlestar's Mother found the world to be damp and drafty. She complained, but I didn't listen. There was a river of hockey children pouring out of the double doors, and attempting to stand in their way would be highly antisocial in my estimation. Then a fool parked her locomotive-sized SUV directly in front of the doors and got in everyone's way, so it became a moot point and we shuffled inside the arena.

People in small towns know where everything is, so they don't put up signs. Never the less, when Old Oak and Littlestar joined us again we found a narrow stairwell up to a second level. This led to a cloak room full of children's boots, so Popsicle pulled off her own boots and ran into the arena's cafe where clouds of other children were running around making noise.

We observed that only the children had removed their boots. The parents, feeling more secure while shod, I suppose, had kept their footwear on. Thus, the floor by the entrance was a swamp of puddles and ice chunks. Many of the children therefore had soaking socks. "Brilliant system," I commented. "I declare cold and flu season: open!" Littlestar giggled.

Because of my failure to get my laundry ducks in line I had experienced some difficulty finding a reasonable approximation of dress-casual wear for the party. I am no slave to fashion, but I admit that I had felt somewhat compromised by the way my grey sweater didn't really go well with my dusty grey-blue slacks...

That is until I stepped into the arena cafe, and got a dose of what my fellow villagers consider "dress-casual." Then I felt like a million bucks.

For the men the term dress-casual obviously meant "no sports motifs" because the sharpest tacks were wearing logoless sweatshirts and jeans, while the occasional man-boy who had baulked at such guidelines wore their usual baseball cap, sports jersey and pseudo-sport leg-striped pantaloons that looked like giant pajamas with zippers on them.

For the women the term meant they had to choose something their toddlers hadn't stained that didn't make them look too fat, which evidently left them few options because in some cases it appeared that their toddlers had in fact been the ones to assemble the outfits. "Do dark blue, red and orange go?"


"Thanks, honey."

In line for a cup of juice I met a nice lady who had one of those unfortunate strawberry-nebula birthmarks exploded over half her face. She had a nice smile, though. She was wearing a ruby-red blouse with giant floofy epaulettes, and a pair of coarse grey unbelted trousers pulled up to her armpits. She was about seven feet tall. Her husband ambled over so they could investigate the sweets table together -- he was the size of an elder Wookiee, a nine-foot middle-aged Quasimodo in a yellow woolen sweater whose lumbering footsteps made the juice cups shudder like in Jurassic Park. He had messy, scholarly hair.

"Those freakish circus people were very nice," I mentioned to Littlestar.

Littlestar was chatting with J., one of the mothers she knows from the village playgroup. J. and her husband are in the process of creating a grand clone army of red-headed boys, the most recent of whom is in his third trimester. J.'s husband was not around (I can only assume a very compelling sporting match was on television), so she was managing the brood alone. She looked tired. She and Littlestar were comparing bellies.

The entertainment portion of the afternoon was a visit from the nice folks at ZooTek who brought tupperware containers full of exotic animals for the children to fondle. The village's next generation gathered as commanded in a semi-circle around the tupperware cubes, a ring of mothers standing behind them. The fathers lounged back at the cafe tables, chatting about sports with one another or staring blankly over the ice-rink down below.

Myself I wanted to see the animals so I hunkered down and sat cross-legged on the floor with the kids. Exotic animals are cool!

Various lizards were passed around, and then an African rabbit with feet so hyper-sensitive to vibration they quivered whenever they lost contact with a solid surface. A few snakes came around, including a mustard-coloured python the length of a sofa. Next came a tarantula and a giant black scorpion, the latter of which glowed a cheery indiglo shade of blue when a black light was pointed at it. (This display would have been more impressive had we been able to turn off the overhead lights as requested, but none of the villagers pawing at the room's dizzying array of switch-banks was able to broker more darkness.)

In the end a great white parrot was brought out and the children lined up to have her stand on their heads so they could have their picture taken.

Lunch was served: a basket of lukewarm hot dogs welded into milk bread sleeves, slices of Papa D.'s pizza, orange-coloured juice-like liquid, home-made cookies and brownies and doughnuts donated from Tim Horton. There wasn't a spoon for all of the condiments, so I used a popsicle-stick for the relish and made a bit of a mess. I figured some kid would get blamed for it, so I ran away.

After eating Popsicle was tired and wanted to sleep, so I pulled out a couple of chairs and draped coats over them to make a tent for her. She crawled inside and used her toque and mittens as a pillow. Her little feet stuck out from underneath, and she wanted me to hold her ankle so that she didn't feel all alone. So I sat on the floor and held her ankle, watching the hot dog line shuffle forward.

There was one well-dressed man in attendance, and it was obvious that he worked in the city. He wore a charcoal-grey shirt and matching creased slacks, with non-sneaker shoes, hair cropped too short for a pony-tail, and he had a number of digital devices on his leather belt. He made his presence known by standing up on the small wooden stage and tapping experimentally on the plastic microphone of his daughter's Barbie-themed karaoke machine. "Is this -- on? It does -- to be work -- operly," his garbled voice stuttered like Max Headroom.

An older woman who must have once been beautiful (or thought she was) slinked over in a tight-fitting Mrs. Claus ensemble and proceeded to poke experimentally at the pink karaoke machine, her velvet-hugged derriere pushing monstrously out at the crowd of children who scooched backward in alarm.

"I think that -- omewhat better," said the nicely dressed man. "Can every -- ear me?"

It was eventually communicated that Santa Claus himself was on his way, and that he had a gift for every boy and girl in attendance. Popsicle sat down on my lap in the middle of the huddle of the children. "Are you going to sit on Santa's knee?" I whispered in her ear.

"I don't know," she said.

"Are you feeling nervous?"

"Yeah," she admitted with a nod. "I a little bit scared of Santa, but he's not a mean guy."

"That's true."

I have mixed feelings about Santa Claus, piqued especially by a recent viewing of Robert Zemeckis' phantasmagorically creepy motion-capture adaptation of Chris Van Allsburg's The Polar Express, in which the central more is the devout and unquestioning belief in the reality of St. Nicholas' magic. Watching the movie with Popsicle made me uncomfortable, as if she were being introduced to a spiritual leader with the power of Jesus Christ or Buddha, but with a theology which is, at best, murky.

I have nothing but positive memories associated with believing in Santa Claus, and recall no sense of betrayal at figuring out the truth. Never the less, I hesitated in the wake of The Polar Express to affirm its message. I felt icky. The child's awe was so untainted and unrestrained that I felt like a liar introducing into the embrace of that belief a known fiction.

Littlestar has been cool to Santa from the start. She is dead set against the most fabulous gifts being attributed to his benevolence, as was the ritual in my childhood home. Last year she set a strict limit on the number of trinkets allowed to be ascribed to Kringle. Our explanation at the time: Santa spends most of his efforts getting gifts to children whose parents can't afford to buy nice things -- children who would otherwise receive nothing at all. "It's Mama and Papa who buy you gifts at Christmas," Littlestar made clear.

This line was harder for the child to tow when she watched Santa Claus Himself stride into the arena cafe with a sack of wrapped gifts over his back. He took his place on a large red leather throne and began handing out the gifts to the children who were called to sit in his knee through the broken squawk of Barbie's karaoke.

"Is it my turn?" asked Popsicle.


"He has a present for me?"

"Yes. You don't have to sit on his knee if you don't want to, though. You can still have a present."

"I want to sit in his knee, Papa."


A little red-headed girl came to sit next to us after receiving her gift, which she declined to open until her best-friend had hers to open, too. "She's my best-friend who I met at Bible camp who is the same age as me almost because her birthday is really close to mine but mine's first," she said conversationally.

"What do you think your present is?" I asked.

She squished it experimentally. "I don't know," she admitted. "But it's got hard parts and soft parts which I can feel. I'm six and next year I'll be seven."

"How splendid," I said.

"What that girl name?" Popsicle asked.

"Ask her," I prompted. "Introduce yourself."

Popsicle obediently shoved out her little hand, which had a temporary tattoo of two crossed candy-canes on the back. The red-headed girl shook it. "Popsico," said Popsicle. "I'm B.," said the girl quickly. "That's spelled like this: Big B...little E...little T..."

We were hailed by the squawk box, so Popsicle and I made our way through the kids. I helped her up to Santa's knee and the toddler kept her eyes on me dubiously. She could not bring herself to look into the face of the big man himself, so holy was his gaze. "Do you want to tell Santa how you've been a good girl?" I prompted her.

"I go poo in the potty," she whispered into her chest.

"Ho Ho Ho!" said Santa, who hadn't heard a word.

Littlestar stepped up with the camera and tried to get Popsicle to smile. The child flashed her teeth briefly in a smile-like grimace of duty and then went back to lingering on Santa's knee bashfully. Santa was handed a gift with Popsicle's name on it and he handed it to Popsicle, who awkwardly stuffed it under her arm next to Bo the teddy bear.

"You should thank Santa," I suggested.

"Thank you," she mouthed, her voice failing her.

I noticed my fly was open, so I tried not to face the crowd as I escorted her offstage. The pink karaoke machine belched the next incomprehensible name and a brace of parents flanked the well-dressed man in an effort to read the call sheet over his shoulder. "Now it's -- ourtney's turn to -- anta!" announced the well-dressed man ineffectually. "This thing doesn't seem to be working very well for some reason," he confided to me as I passed, toeing the plastic case with his Italian loafer.

Popsicle's gift? A small pink pony with absurdly long purple hair and a tattoo of a doily on its rump, a plastic stationary set including a pad of notepaper inscribed Friends shop together! in pink letters, and a Clifford the Big Red Dog sticker album with four pages of stickers.

It was this last element she fancied as the greatest prize after getting over a two minute fascination with combing the tats out of the pony's tail out with the included pink plastic brush. The stationary set enjoyed five minutes of attention while she drew a picture of Santa on the pad once I'd sharpened the pink pencil with the pink pencil sharpener. I put the shavings in my pocket so that we didn't leave a mess.

Then we took down our chair-tent and put on our hats and scarves and boots to brave the viper wind between the arena and the Volvo, which Old Oak had warmed up by thoughtfully hotboxing the cabin with tobacco smoke. As we nosed the car toward the road he wondered aloud, "Now I can't remember if it vas to the right or to the left..."

"You just turn --" began Littlestar's Mother.

"Vill you stop always talking, ja!" cried Old Oak. "I can't remember vit your talking all the time, no. Let me think vor just one moment, vill you?"

He turned right, which was correct.

< Ooh superman where are you now | BBC White season: 'Rivers of Blood' >
St. Nicholas at Gilford | 45 comments (45 topical, 0 hidden)
That was a My Little Pony by georgeha (2.00 / 0) #1 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 04:21:57 AM EST
four year old has many, which she adores, and carries them around in a purple purse. She adores all things pony and horse, was coloring horses last night while nine year old did homework.

That Franchise Is Still Around? by CheeseburgerBrown (2.00 / 0) #11 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:29:40 AM EST
Ye gods -- I thought the line of the beast seemed familiar!

What's next? Rainbow Brite, My Buddy or Micronauts?

I am from a small, unknown country in the north called Ca-na-da. We are a simple, grease-loving people who enjoy le weekend de ski.
[ Parent ]
Why kill the goose by georgeha (2.00 / 0) #13 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:32:58 AM EST
if it's still laying vibrant pastel eggs that parents of little girls pay for.

Rainbow Brite has a web page, four year old saw it at neighbor's house.

[ Parent ]
I have seen Rainbow Bright by jayhawk88 (2.00 / 0) #19 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 06:09:37 AM EST past years. Perhaps one day it will be safe for me to expose my secret fascination with the intricate and complex Rainbow Bright mythology and backstory. Someday...

It's not all bad though. Jenn and I were in a mall store the other day and found a Pound-a-Peg; the toy that is essentially a wooden bench with holes in it, that the child uses a hammer to pound odd-shaped dowels through. We're going to be evil aunt and uncle and give it to my mother in anticipation of my sisters impending baby. I would have thought this toy lost to history after being the ruin of ten thousand coffe tables in the late 70's, but no. It's even wooden too, not plastic.

They also had Erector sets. Real metal ones. I know!

[ Parent ]
We have that too by littlestar (2.00 / 0) #42 Thu Dec 15, 2005 at 07:51:44 AM EST
Popsicle absolutely loves it! She loves working with tools and hammering on anything. I actually am also very fond of that toy. I appreciate tools myself.

[ Parent ]
Yes by Phil the Canuck (2.00 / 0) #14 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:35:04 AM EST
My daughter has an army of them. I sleep with the lights on, just in case.

[ Parent ]
How Are You Guys Doing the Santa Thing? by Christopher Robin was Murdered (4.00 / 2) #2 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 04:51:55 AM EST
May and I talked about the fact that, should we ever have kids, we'd both be uncomfortable bullshitting our hypothetical off-spring about where gifts come from. On the other hand, we'd feel a little odd purposefully removing our imagined little one out of the mainstream culture and denying them the whole Santa thing, especially when it doesn't seem to hurt anybody.

What's the Burger/Star household position on Santa's existence?

Not that you asked... by calla (4.00 / 2) #4 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 04:59:33 AM EST
but I could never intentionally lie to my kids. I told them that Santa was pretend, from day one.

They seem fine about it. There's the pretend Santa gifts and the fun trips to have a picture taken with a guy in a suit.

One major benefit from not lying about Santa is the great trust I've got from my kids. I've even heard my daughter brag to other people that her mom would never lie to her.

"However, for this current diary to be genuine would have obliged her to read my Sam's Teach Yourself Unix Adminstration in 24 Hours, which is both disturbing and super erotic." Rogerborg

[ Parent ]
No Questions, No Lies by CheeseburgerBrown (4.00 / 2) #8 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:24:55 AM EST
I figure once she has thought about it hard enough to wonder I'll have to oblige her with a straight answer.

The issue of his reality remains nebulous this year only because she hasn't asked.

I am from a small, unknown country in the north called Ca-na-da. We are a simple, grease-loving people who enjoy le weekend de ski.
[ Parent ]
I don't think my girl asked. by calla (2.00 / 0) #15 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:35:16 AM EST
But I never forgot the trama of finding out I'd been lied to about Santa.

Popsicle is so young, real and magic aren't so different.

I like your way of handling Santa with her. It seems very gentle.

"However, for this current diary to be genuine would have obliged her to read my Sam's Teach Yourself Unix Adminstration in 24 Hours, which is both disturbing and super erotic." Rogerborg

[ Parent ]
When We Knew by Christopher Robin was Murdered (4.00 / 1) #23 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 07:02:19 AM EST
I don't remember a specific moment when it suddenly became a post-Santa world. I remember the first time somebody came right out and said there was no Santa (Chris Young, neighbor, "You know there's no such thing as Santa, right?"), but it was a bit of an anti-climax as I think the various leaps of logic one had to make to still buy into Santa became increasingly complex - huge world child population, gift services to only Christian kids, houses without chimneys, etc. It was more like a surrender to the obvious. Bit of a bummer, in an abstract way, but it wasn't a dramatic revelation.

What happened that yours was so dramatic, if you don't mind me asking?

[ Parent ]
My mom just told me by calla (4.00 / 1) #29 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 01:29:39 PM EST
in a matter of fact way that there was no santa. I was probably five.

I cried and cried. The whole world lied to me.

"However, for this current diary to be genuine would have obliged her to read my Sam's Teach Yourself Unix Adminstration in 24 Hours, which is both disturbing and super erotic." Rogerborg

[ Parent ]
trama by debacle (2.00 / 0) #31 Tue Dec 13, 2005 at 05:45:32 AM EST
Tra"ma, n. [L., woof.] (Bot.) The loosely woven substance which lines the chambers within the gleba in certain Gasteromycetes. too.


[ Parent ]
Funny that. by calla (2.00 / 0) #33 Tue Dec 13, 2005 at 05:55:20 AM EST
I didn't notice the mistake until you pointed it out. I don't remember if I spellchecked it or not.

"However, for this current diary to be genuine would have obliged her to read my Sam's Teach Yourself Unix Adminstration in 24 Hours, which is both disturbing and super erotic." Rogerborg
[ Parent ]
huh, I can't say it was that bad for me by Phil Urich (4.00 / 1) #34 Tue Dec 13, 2005 at 04:37:09 PM EST
I never really bought into it entirely anyways; the closest I got was thinking that maybe there was this grown-up organization that delivered the toys that parents request for their children, but I think I only believed even that for about half a day before I had overthought it into oblivion.

I was a very, very skeptical child, despite my parents' rather subtle and concentrated efforts.  My younger sister was quite fooled by Santa and other things, so I'm not sure what it was about me that I was always so incredulous and grounded in reality (not to get it wrong, I had a typically overactive imagination, and could act as if it was real; but even if parts of me were treating things as real, there was always a core that kept in mind what things were reasonable, beyond just merely what there was and wasn't evidence for).

[ Parent ]
Interesting by calla (2.00 / 0) #35 Tue Dec 13, 2005 at 05:38:44 PM EST
I think you are the first kid I've heard of that didn't buy the santa thing at all.

"However, for this current diary to be genuine would have obliged her to read my Sam's Teach Yourself Unix Adminstration in 24 Hours, which is both disturbing and super erotic." Rogerborg
[ Parent ]
Here in Canuckistan... by ShadowNode (2.00 / 0) #37 Tue Dec 13, 2005 at 10:22:28 PM EST
The post office answers letters to Santa. He even has his own postal code (H0H 0H0).

[ Parent ]
oh, I know (though I had forgotten) by Phil Urich (2.00 / 0) #44 Thu Dec 15, 2005 at 07:41:10 PM EST
I grew up in the Praries, ie. Soviet Canukistan's Siberia :)

[ Parent ]
I'm not sure what I'd do by ShadowNode (2.00 / 0) #36 Tue Dec 13, 2005 at 10:18:21 PM EST
I can see the merit in your position, but there's a great theology lesson to be learnt when they figure out the mythical flying bearded man doesn't really exist.

[ Parent ]
Theology lesson? by calla (2.00 / 0) #38 Wed Dec 14, 2005 at 03:55:06 AM EST
I don't see it. A lie is a lie. My kids can learn the lie lesson from someone else.

"However, for this current diary to be genuine would have obliged her to read my Sam's Teach Yourself Unix Adminstration in 24 Hours, which is both disturbing and super erotic." Rogerborg
[ Parent ]
White bearded men in the sky... by ShadowNode (2.00 / 0) #39 Wed Dec 14, 2005 at 08:42:25 AM EST
Aren't real, even if people tell you they are.

[ Parent ]
Interesting by calla (2.00 / 0) #40 Wed Dec 14, 2005 at 02:40:53 PM EST
makes a good joke.

"However, for this current diary to be genuine would have obliged her to read my Sam's Teach Yourself Unix Adminstration in 24 Hours, which is both disturbing and super erotic." Rogerborg
[ Parent ]
Joke? by CheeseburgerBrown (2.00 / 0) #41 Thu Dec 15, 2005 at 03:24:40 AM EST
Scepticism toward those who demand absolute belief in exchange for reward is a very serious matter.

Such lessons protect children not only against Santa Claus and Mohammed but also corrupt institutions, cult leaders, destructive jingoism and relationships with highly asymmetrical distributions of power.

Not a joke.

I am from a small, unknown country in the north called Ca-na-da. We are a simple, grease-loving people who enjoy le weekend de ski.
[ Parent ]
The Evolving Santa Doctrine, In Summary: by CheeseburgerBrown (4.00 / 3) #7 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:20:48 AM EST
#1. Santa Claus is "magic", much like many fictitious entities with which she is already familiar (pixies, dragons, black soots). We leave off explicitly saying he is fictitious, but we are also loath to affirm his reality. If/when she asks her classic question, "Is it real, Papa?" I would be obliged to say, "No, not really." She has not yet caught on to the fact that Papa often uses "magic" as a synonym for "not real."

#2. Santa Claus does not put gifts under our Christmas tree -- our family and friends do. We have explained that Santa Claus is there to look after unlucky children whose parents can't afford to buy gifts. Santa is a "Christmas Helper for Mamas and Papas."

#3. The men in false beards on street corners or at the mall are just regular folk who are pitching in to help Santa's effort. They have made themselves look like Santa to make people happy, like the way we dress up at Hallowe'en for fun. This was especially true of the Santa we saw loitering in the Annex, smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk with his beard hanging off -- just a "helper."

#4. Santa Claus is a symbol of Christmastime, like jack-o-lanterns are a symbol of Hallowe'en. She doesn't yet grasp what a "symbol" is, but it's very cute when she tries to say the word. Just as we could have Hallowe'en without jack-o-lanterns, we could enjoy Christmas without Santa. The symbol isn't the thing. It just reminds us of the thing.

#5. The most important part of Christmastime is everybody getting together and having a splendid time.

#6. For some people Christmas is all about Jesus, whose image she recognizes from a T-shirt of mine my mother gave me as a lark a couple of Christmasses ago.

#7. Christmas is a period of time and not a place, which was the impression she had coming away from Zemeckis' film. She now understands that the North Pole is a location in Canada, our country, where Santa's hideout is alleged to be.

#8. Deer can't fly. When she sees reindeer flying in movies or in books, that's "just pretend." It's "magic" (see #1).

#9. Anybody can play Santa's part. All you have to do is be very friendly and generous, and you're being a Santa for someone. It's nice to be like Santa.

I am from a small, unknown country in the north called Ca-na-da. We are a simple, grease-loving people who enjoy le weekend de ski.
[ Parent ]
don't forget by tps12 (2.00 / 0) #18 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:41:06 AM EST
#10. Santa only needs to deliver coal to unlucky bad children whose parents can't afford to beat them.

[ Parent ]
I Like the Symbol Thing by Christopher Robin was Murdered (2.00 / 0) #24 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 07:04:14 AM EST
May and I settled for some sort of "treat him as a symbol of the holidays" instead of investing him with a full character. Your approach seems very wise.

[ Parent ]
I dispute your leafy claim to the North Pole by debacle (2.00 / 0) #32 Tue Dec 13, 2005 at 05:49:26 AM EST
It obviously belongs to Russia.


[ Parent ]
nonsense. by aphrael (2.00 / 0) #45 Sat Dec 17, 2005 at 10:07:29 AM EST
Santa by Man (2.00 / 0) #25 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 07:19:51 AM EST
I have been drafted to be Santa by my wife's play-group, probably for having the attribute of "least likely to demand to be watching the niners".

"Ho Ho Ho!"

[ Parent ]
I grew up in a Christian home by littlestar (2.00 / 0) #43 Thu Dec 15, 2005 at 07:57:38 AM EST
So Santa was never something that was really a part of Christmas for me. I do not recall ever caring really. I remember seeing Santa at malls and stuff and thinking he was cool, but he was just some Christmas guy who gave presents to kids. Some years my paretns would have a present be from him, sometimes not. I only noticed the year there were ONLY presents from him, that made me upset cause I thought my parents hadn't gotten me anything. Of course, being Christians, my parents were always going on about what Christmas is REALLY about etc. etc. So, to me Santa was never the Jesus he is to most kids.

[ Parent ]
Awwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!! by molasses (4.00 / 1) #3 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 04:51:57 AM EST

Happy holidays schoolhouse kids!

We miss you!

(should we start planning HusiStock II for the 4th? Do let us know!)


I Can't Stock The HuSi in 2006. by CheeseburgerBrown (2.00 / 0) #12 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:31:09 AM EST
She thinks Santa's scary by nebbish (2.00 / 0) #5 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:18:38 AM EST
I saw <a href=>Downfall</a> last week, in which some little children sat on Uncle Hitler's knee while he told them a story *shudder*

It's political correctness gone mad!

Bah [nt] by nebbish (2.00 / 0) #9 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:26:26 AM EST

It's political correctness gone mad!

[ Parent ]
Old Oak, by ambrosen (4.00 / 1) #6 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:18:46 AM EST
sounds very like someone I know. Or at least, like that person in 30 years time.

That makes me very sad.

The Worst Part: by CheeseburgerBrown (2.00 / 0) #10 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:27:34 AM EST
I sugar-coat the portrayal of Old Oak, for the sake of making a vitriolic bully seem merely befuddled and grouchy. The reality would ruin my diary entry.

I am from a small, unknown country in the north called Ca-na-da. We are a simple, grease-loving people who enjoy le weekend de ski.
[ Parent ]
I believe you. by ambrosen (2.00 / 0) #20 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 06:17:27 AM EST
You also sensibly sugar-coated his real presence there, reading between the lines, which made it possible for you all to actually enjoy yourself, which was a good thing.

[ Parent ]
Santa by MillMan (2.00 / 0) #16 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:37:43 AM EST
On my first visit to his holiness when I was probably four, he asked me what I wanted, and I honestly couldn't think of anything. I'm still puzzled by that.

My parents took the same approach as Littlestar - the best presents were from them, and were opened on the night of the 24th. On the morning of the 25th, we had our stockings stuffed with various little trinkets from Santa.

"Just as there are no atheists in foxholes, there are no libertarians in financial crises." -Krugman

Let me be perfectly blunt and honest by Phil the Canuck (4.00 / 2) #17 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 05:39:35 AM EST
Santa gets fucked at my house, fucked right up the ass with a rusty metal pole. This was by design starting from my son's second xmas. He manages to drop off a few neat little things that I know the kids will really like, but nothing large. The theory being, from back in the day, that mommy or daddy might lose a paycheque or have to fix a car. Best not to have to explain why Santa skimped.

Well, that's certainly a non-traditional Christmas by Gully Foyle (4.00 / 2) #21 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 06:19:10 AM EST
We normally leave out shortbread and a wee dram for Santa. If I'd know he'd prefer a good hard buggering with an improvised dildo, I might have been a little more creative...

[ Parent ]
Re: Santa by toxicfur (4.00 / 1) #22 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 06:21:02 AM EST
First, I grew up quite poor. I mean, we always had indoor plumbing, but we spent a bit of time of government assistance, and if it hadn't been for my grandparents' generosity, I'm not sure where we would've lived for large portions of my childhood. But Santa always managed to get us gifts that I was sure my parents couldn't afford. I still have no idea how we managed to have Christmases that seemed (to my eyes, at least) as good as anything my friends had.

As a result, I clung to my belief in Santa long after some of my classmates. It wasn't a traua in any way, though, when I accepted the truth--my mom had long explained that Santa is the symbol of generosity, and that Santa does exist, even if parents are the ones actually purchasing and giving gifts.

My mom continued to play Santa until, well, until a few years ago when her health had deteriorated to the point that she couldn't go shopping for us. One of my favorite memories of high school was being allowed to help set up the Santa stuff for my brothers. Now that my mom's health has deteriorated, we get money, which is just fine, but I do miss that rush of excitement and love I got from Santa (either the getting stuff or the being Santa).
But sometimes? Sometimes, both shoes have already dropped. Ain't no more shoes. --blixco

What is she thinking by greyrat (2.00 / 0) #26 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 08:00:00 AM EST
whilst that cockatoo is standing on her arm?

That picture by ni (4.00 / 2) #27 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 11:20:51 AM EST
Must be added to the "reserved for the viewing of future boyfriends" pile.

Think metahistorically, act locally. -- CheeseburgerBrown
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i'm thinking by 606 (4.00 / 1) #28 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 11:38:12 AM EST
it's "please don't make bird poop on my arm", but who really knows what mysteries lie in the mind of a child?

imagine dancing banana here
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Don't know by TurboThy (4.00 / 1) #30 Mon Dec 12, 2005 at 02:40:25 PM EST
but allow me to say that wearing one striped and one dotted sock undoubtedly raises your street-cred in rural Canada from pale toddler to ... um, something very cool.
Sommerhus til salg, første række til Kattegat.
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St. Nicholas at Gilford | 45 comments (45 topical, 0 hidden)