Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A Not-Really-Review: You Better Not Cry

At our house, Santa always arrived on Christmas Eve. He seemed to know exactly when mass at St. Luke's ended and must have calculated his sleigh flight to arrive about twenty minutes after, just when we had snuggled into our pajamas and gathered around the fake tree to wait. A jingle of sleigh bells, a hearty laugh, and a booming knock on the front door signaled his arrival (we had no chimney for him to slide down, one of the great tragedies of my life, along with the lack of a secret passage in our new-ish tract home). My brother and I would race to the door where a humongous pile of sparkling presents waited. We'd drag in the booty with a cursory glance at the night sky to see if a trace of reindeer could be seen. This happened about three or four times in a row: the knock, the pile of presents, the heady act of unwrapping. Then, one Christmas (I was about six) while my brother was busy dragging in the gifts, I noticed the garage light on. Strange, I thought. Who could be in our garage at this time of night? I peeked in, and there they were: Santa's presents, all piled together on the dirty garage floor. Santa, I figured, must be short on storage space.

The Not-Really Book Club meets each month in Sacramento

1 comment:

Donna Cappello said...

I hope your memories hold some semblance of mystery and awe. Thats what I wished for you when you were small.