A Christmas Memory

Christmas was drawing near. The signs were everywhere. The once long “Christmas Countdown Chain” of 30 paper rings, of red, white, green, black, and orange (for some reason, I was the only third grader who believed that orange was a Christmas color - this could simply be because of my intense love for Halloween - though I did get ridiculed for the orange rings, approximately six of them in my chain that we had made in school, none of the other students, nor Mrs. Mautoon for that matter, seemed to notice as I was gleefully cutting up the orange paper, until I had cemented with glue and strung them about my desk - far too late for me to do anything about it - at least they were kinder to me than they were to my friend Simon, who on our next Christmas project, made a huge banner of stenciled letters and glitter, that read “Happy Christmas” - I even laughed at that one - that took some of the attention away from my orange rings), that hung from the fireplace had dwindled to four.

There were other signs. The feverish shopping trips that my mother and grandmother made. The mountainous stack of Christmas greeting cards in red or white envelops began to arrive with the morning mail. My favorite TV shows, the Smurfs, Knightrider, and Spiderman and His Amazing Friends, began to have Christmas themes. And finally, the stockpiling of Christmas food: fudge, fruit cake, and armies of elves, reindeer, and snowmen shaped cookies.

The sign that I carefully monitored most was the growing metropolis of presents being erected under our tree. So far there were only two presents addressed to me. They were tiny ones from my older brother and sister. So that meant that the biggies were still out there, somewhere. There was still time then for me to find them before they were lost to me forever, or at least until Christmas eve, which to a nine year old boy like me, seemed an eternity.

For the hundredth time I searched our attic for my presents. For the hundredth time I came up empty. Next, I investigated every square inch of the high and dark place in the basement. Traces of cobwebs or dust disappeared since I frequented these places so often in the past week. Usually, the threat of spiders kept me out of such places, but no mere eight legged foe was going to stand between my Christmas presents and me. Again, though, I came up empty.

After that, I scoured my sister’s room. I discovered a diary, love letters, and a big red ring that read, “Arnie, Class of ‘80.” These things were of usual interest, but they were worthless to me now. Finally, I checked the loft above our garage. The shelves and closet were bare. Last year’s wood burner kit and robotix set had been found there. Ahh, the good old days. I began to fear that this was it. The first year since I could remember that I hadn’t found at least one present to ease my agonizing curiosity before Christmas.

I began to wonder how my mom could possible be so cruel. In an attempt to find an ally in my struggle, I confronted my brother about the location of my presents. He simply told me what he had bought me and sent me on my way. That did a lot of good. The present was already wrapped and under the tree.

My sister said I would be lucky to see this Christmas after I revealed that I had searched her room. Luckily, before she got her claws into me, my squealing awoke my dad. He pounded on the door and ordered us to be quiet since he was trying to take a nap.

Dad was of little use to me too. When I interrogated him, he denied that he know anything about the whereabouts of my presents. He also explained that the presents weren’t his department. It seemed that his jobs included putting all the Christmas lights on the house, trimming the tree, and staying out of Mom’s way as much as possible.

Did he think I was stupid? This was a conspiracy! They were all in on it. This called for drastic action. I had to think of something. But what could I do?

Then it hit me as I was brooding under my bed - since they insisted on hiding my presents, then I would simply hide theirs until we all could reach an agreement or until Christmas arrived. Drastic times call for drastic measures. Even at nine I knew that.

I quickly scampered down our steps on my way to our living room formulating all of the details of my plan in my mind. It still needed some fine tuning but . . . A cry and whimper escaped my mouth. What I saw was horrible. I couldn’t look. There were no presents under the tree!

I cried out even louder for everyone in the house to hear. I was pretty sure I yelled loud enough for my grandmother to hear at her house across town. Mom and Dad came running followed by my brother and sister.

“Quick, we’ve been robbed! Somebody call the cops!” I yelled and then tore off for the phone. My mom’s hand on the back of my t-shirt stopped me from grabbing the phone and dialing 911.

Mom was the first to break the bad news to me while my sister and brother burst into laughter. There had been no burglar at all. But it was almost as bad. Mom said she brought the presents over to my grandmother’s house. It seems that we were going to be spending Christmas Eve there.