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Retirement Talk for Boomers, Seniors, and Retirees |
Frog Spit
Jackie Spinks
Chapter Eleven
“If you don’t eat your mush Santa won’t come.” Mama would admonish me, filling me with fear, but not enough to compel me to eat the mush. But then as I loved and would do anything for a visit from Santa, after much debate over the options I’d force down a bite of the hated oatmeal mush to assure a stopover from Santa.
“Can’t we go see Santa Claus now?” I’d pull on Mama’s house dress.
“Did you eat your mush?”
“Part of it.”
“Not
until you eat all your mush.” I then
vomited it up.
My only alternative then was
to cry non-stop until Mama relented and said, “Later. Not today.
But later. I’m busy now.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
“The next day, “Please, Mama, when can we go see Santa?”
“I don’t even know if Santa is down from the North Pole yet.”
“Beverly
(most popular girl amongst the playground set) says he is.”
“What does
“She saw him. I wish I could see him.”
“Oh, well, maybe tomorrow.”
Tomorrow comes. “Can we go today. You said we could go today to see Santa.”
“I said, “maybe.” And we can’t go today. Granny is coming over. Don’t you want to see Granny?”
I though that one over. I loved Granny Brita, but could see her anytime-- but Santa, now, was only once a year.
“Can I write a letter to Santa and tell him what I want?”
“That would be a good idea, but you know if you’re not a good girl, Santa won’t bring you anything. He brings bad kids a piece of coal you know.”
I had visions of waking up Christmas morning, looking under the Christmas tree that Daddy, Brother and I had found in the forest and chopped down and finding nothing but a piece of coal. I could think of nothing more disappointing and humiliating than facing the neighborhood kids after Christmas and having nothing to “Show and Tell” except a piece of coal, while Beverly had a Shirley Temple doll, a tea set and a game.
So I transformed myself into as obedient a kid as I could rustle up—running to fetch wood for the wood box, feeding the chickens regularly, going to the store at the bottom of the street for a loaf of bread or a bottle of milk, whenever Mama asked, and telling the grocer to put it on our bill till payday.
The grocer would stall around and grouse a bit, but eventually would put it on our bill. His reluctance to charge didn’t bother me a bit, but it bothered Mama immensely, so from the age of four, I did all the shopping towards the end of the week, when our money had run out. Along with this, to cinch a visit from Santa, I’d wipe the dishes sweep the porch and help with the wash.
“When, Mama? When?” I’d exclaim after every chore.
Finally, Mama would break down a week before Christmas and take Brother and me to see Santa.
“Are you excited?” Mama asked as we walked side by side down the street, Mama pushing Brother in the baby buggy, which he hated almost as much as I hated mush.
Barely able to speak, such was my anxiety, “Uh, huh.” I’d reply, not paying attention.
Brother was now standing up and shaking the buggy in protest, so Mama lowered Brother from the buggy and pushed it empty. But before she did she fastened Brother in a harness, so he couldn’t run away and get lost in the stores. We trekked over to Montgomery Wards, then ambled around here and there, stopping while Mama checked out the price of this or that item. Brother, less plighted to Santa than I, would attempt to do a personal pilgrimage, around the store, but Mama held him close with the harness. I, the compliant one, hung onto Mama’s cotton housedress.
“Come on Mama. Let’s go see Santa?” I shook her dress.
“Oh,
you won’t stop pestering me until we see Santa, will you?”
“No.”
Huge sigh and Mama asked someone where Santa was and after receiving the information that he was upstairs, we, or rather I, galloped up the stairs, in front of Mama and Brother. The first thing I saw when I reached the top was a large congregation of people.
“There’s Santa,” Mama exclaimed, feigning excitement, as she reached the top of the stairs.
“Where?” Eagerly.
“Right
over there. See him?”
And there he was. I shook, as I
came face to face with that
elegant figure, dressed in red velvet, with white fur and a white
beard, just
like in the pictures, surrounded by dozens of kids, laughing and
saying, “Hoe,
hoe, hoe.” I stood in awed silence,
staring transfixed.
“Come on,” Mama said, “Let’s go up close and see him.”
“No,” I replied.
“Come on,” stern now. Mama had gotten us all dressed up, put Brother in his buggy, walked all the way down town, pushing the baby buggy for this meeting with Santa and now I wouldn’t go near him. Mama’s cost and time efficiency management was being threatened.
“No, Mama. I can’t.”
“Come on. You’ve been nagging me every day for two weeks to see him-- now let’s go see him.”
“NO!”
“What’s the matter with you? It’s Santa. Come on!”
“No! No! NO!
“Don’t you like Santa?”
‘Yes. I love him.”
Well, then.” And Mama picked me up and started towards Santa. And with that I let out a thunderous tsunami of wailing and kicking and struggling to get down. “I don’t want to go! Please! PLEASE! NO!”
“What am I going to do with
you?” Mama put me down.
Couldn’t Mama see I wanted to stand and look at him.
I didn’t want to be close to him and have him
see me. I was too afraid of him.
“Brother do you want to see Santa?” Mama questioned Brother.
Brother had caught my fear and replied with a shrill, “No.”
“What a waste of time,” Mama said. “Okay, let’s go home.” And so this is the way it went every year—ages two, three, four, five and six—the nagging to see Santa, then the refusal to go near him, once we were in his presence.
And then at the age of seven, the shocking information, there’s no Santa Claus. Santa is your mother and father. Disillusioning, a bump down to earth, but also good news, as I knew Mama and Daddy would never give me a piece of coal for Christmas.