The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
Christmas Story
by
Harry Buschman
I didn't believe in Santa Claus until I had children of my own.
Children in the tenements of Brooklyn, even before they could walk, learned that
Christmas presents were bought and hidden during that magic month between
Thanksgiving and December 25th. There were places we were forbidden to go,
packages we were told to stay away from, and the Christmas tree, like a homeless
person wrapped in rags, lay bundled on the fire escape exposed to the snow and
rain.
Whispered conversations would evaporate into thin air, and knowing glances would
be exchanged whenever I entered the room. ("You know what I mean.") ("Don't let
him see you.") ("I'll tell you later."). Hiding a Christmas present from a child
in a railroad flat was an open invitation to his curiosity. All kids knew what
they were getting for Christmas long before the happy day arrived. Many of them
had already made plans to swap with their friends.
How can you conceal a sled or a bicycle from the eyes of a curious child in such
tight quarters? There could be no surprises. The inevitable and unwelcome gifts
of sturdy drop-seat underwear and knee-high socks required no concealment, we
never bothered to look for them. We knew they'd show up on Christmas day like
Planters Warts.
Christmas Eve was the only night of the year I was permitted to sleep in my
Aunt's bedroom while the living room was prepared for the noisy arrival of St.
Nick. The noise was deafening and trying to sleep was impossible. The family
could be heard across the hall, grunting, sweating and swearing as the tree was
dragged in from the fire escape leaving a trail of needles and snow through the
kitchen, dining room and across my mother and father's bedroom. Finally my
father's fast fading temper would explode with, "The Goddamn wheel don't fit --
Christ, why can't they make a wheel that fits?!" Oh! ... how I wanted to get up
and help him! How much simpler it would have been. I knew exactly how to put the
wheel on ... I had done it a dozen times before and I only hoped he wouldn't
break the damn thing. I pleaded silently, "Read the instructions, Pa -- you've
got to put the cotter pin in first ... it's right there in the box!" I wanted to
shout it out but I couldn't. I could only hope he didn't break something and make a mess of Christmas morning.
When morning came and peace had been restored, I would be summoned to come and
see what Santa had trudged up four flights of stairs with. With the sweet
innocent gift of deceit that all children master at a very young age, I would
pretend surprise with the flexible flyer sled or the "Erector Set" that I had
been playing with since I discovered them behind the piano a month ago. "Aren't
you going to open these?" my mother would say. Not wanting to look at underwear
and woolen socks, I would pretend deafness and put that chore off as long as I
could. Did she seriously think I believed Santa made underwear and socks in his
workshop? You left the labels on, Ma. Come on, they were made in Camden, New
Jersey, I wasn't born yesterday!
There was a certain smart-assed smugness in playing openly with the things I had
to play with in secret before. ("Look how quickly he put the Erector Set
together -- I told you he'd going to be an architect.") But it could never
compare with the clandestine pleasure I got from playing with them in the dim
light behind the piano. There was magic back there -- magic. The shadowy
darkness hid the imperfections and made trucks look like trucks ... made trains
look like trains. The nervous anticipation of being discovered in the act like a
thief in Tiffany's caught in the blinding glare of the watchman's lantern only
added to the excitement.
Like all children must, I eventually broke the news to my mother and father that
there was no Santa Claus. I felt they were old enough to know what I knew. They
had labored for years pretending and protecting me from the facts of life which
were evident to me almost from the beginning. We had no chimney -- we didn't
even have a roof ... Mrs. Erwin lived upstairs, and our windows were stuffed
shut with newspaper to protect us from the winter's chill from Halloween to
Easter Sunday. He'd have to huff and puff up those four flights of stairs,
wouldn't he Ma? -- with a sack of toys on his back for all the children in the
world -- he'd never make it Ma.
Let me be a part of it Ma. Let me help -- I'd like to buy you and Pop something
for Christmas too. I want to help with the tree, maybe next time, for once, we
can get it to stand up straight. "The presents? I won't look at mine if you
won't look at yours -- is that a deal?" Christmas meant a lot more to me after I
convinced them there was no Santa Claus, I got to give as well as take, and when
push comes to shove I think giving makes Christmas all the sweeter.
©1996 Harry Buschman
(880)
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work
