A Memory

There's something special about a childhood memory of Christmas. That moment where you're teleported back to a time where magic lived and breathed within the world and people around you. Let me share one that is especially precious to me: a memory featuring my favorite hero, my mercurial villain, my wise counselor, or, simply put, my Dad....

Each Christmas had its' steadfast traditions. There was the unadorned tree on the eve of, and the decorated tree revealed upon the morning. There was the dining room table resplendent with boxes of cookies in the shapes of a town village. And there was the Yankee Candle set to burn uninterrupted upon the mantle. But there was one tradition that was broken on the night of the memory I wish to share with you now....

It was a Christmas Eve like any other, and my brother and I sat beside the crackling fire daydreaming that we had no need for bed time. No, we were so assured that our drooping lids would bear their weight a bit longer so that we may be the ones to greet Santa as he came down the chimney. But it wasn't to be as our father assured us that we did have to go to bed lest Santa pass by our house that night. Herding us to our feet, our nightly tradition of kisses and sleepy g'nights progressed until my brother, with a startled cry, exclaimed that we had not left out the milk and cookies for Santa's visit. Following his fine example of hospitality and ehem bribery, I too raised the cry. Our father bore this stoically with only a moment of, what I can now understand was, chagrin before raising his hands in defeat. "Oh, of course," he muttered in answer and dutifully led us into the kitchen.

But then a curious thing occurred that my brother and I did not expect. Our father paused, his hand half raised towards the cabinet. Lowering his hand, he turned back to us, his gaze looking from the cookie adorned table to us and back. "Don't you think we have enough cookies out for Santa," he asked, his wheedling tone quite lost on us then. "But he needs his own plate," my brother and I pleaded--both of us quite sure that Santa would be quite put out by us if he did not find a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for his own use. "Oh, but Santa and I had a talk about this the last time he visited us," he assured us, the twinkle in his eye unnoticed as he continued, "He told me that he gets so many cookies and glasses of milk at every other boys' and girls' houses that he would prefer something different." Our eyes wrinkling in confusion, for in what child's mind can there ever be enough cookies, my brother and I stared up at our father and asked, "Like what?" Well, our father responded with that twinkle in his eye and his cheeks rosy with suppressed glee... "Santa wants a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a coke-a-cola."

...Yes Da--Santa, we still remember your love for a sandwich and a coke.

And with that, I leave you to your eve. Much love to you all, and may you all share in a very merry Christmas.