Willow_Raindancer
December 14th, 2002, 03:36 PM
A friend sent me this and I thought I'd share it!
Five minutes before the Winter Solstice circle was scheduled to begin,
>my mother called. Since I'm the only one in our
>coven who doesn't run on Pagan Standard Time, I took the call. Half the
>people hadn't arrived, and those who had wouldn't settle down to
>business for at least twenty minutes.
>
>"Merry Christmas, Frannie."
>
>"Hi, Mom. I don't do Christmas."
>
>"Maybe not--but I do, so I'll say it." she told me in her sassy
>voice, kind of sweet and vinegary at the same time. "If I can respect
>your freedom of religion, you can respect my freedom of speech."
>
>I grinned and rolled my eyes. "And the score is Mom -one, Fran -
>nothing. But I love you, anyway."
>
>People were bustling around in the next room, setting up the altar,
>decking the halls with what I considered excessive amounts of holly and
>ivy, and singing something like, "O, Solstice Tree."
>
>"It sounds like a...holiday party." Mom said.
>
>"We're doing Winter Solstice tonight."
>
>"Oh. That's sort of like your version of Christmas, right?"
>
>I wanted to snap back that Christmas was the Christian
>version of Solstice, but I held back.
>
>"We celebrate the return of the sun. It's a lot quieter than
>Christmas. No shopping sprees, no pine needles and tinsel on the floor,
>and it doesn't wipe me out. I remember how you
>had always worked yourself to a frazzle by December 26."
>
>"Oh honey, I loved doing all that stuff. I wouldn't trade those
>memories for all the spare time in the world. I wish you and Jack would
>loosen up a little for the baby's sake. When you were little, you
>enjoyed Easter bunnies and trick-or-treating and Christmas things. Since
>you've gotten into this Wicca religion, you sound a lot like Aunt Betty
>the year she was a Jehovah's Witness."
>
>I laughed nervously. "Yeah. How is Aunt Betty?"
>
>"Fine. She's into the Celestine Prophecy now, and she seems quite
>happy. Y'know," she went on, "Aunt Betty always said the Jehovah's
>Witnesses
>said those holiday things were pagan. So Idon't see why you've given
>them up."
>
>"Uh, they've been commercialized and polluted beyond
>recognition. We're into very simple, quiet celebrations."
>
>"Well," she said dubiously, "as long as you're happy."
>
>Sometimes long distance is better than being there, 'cause your mother
>can't give you the look that makes you agree
>with everything she says. Jack rescued me by interrupting.
>
>Hi, Ma." he called to the phone as he waved a beribboned sprig of
>mistletoe over my head. Then he kissed me, one of
>those quick noisy ones. I frowned at him.
>
>"Druidic tradition, Fran. Swear to Goddess."
>
>"Of course it is. Did the Druids use plastic berries?"
>
>"Always. We'll be needing you in about five minutes."
>
>"Okay. Gotta go, Mom. Love you."
>
>We had a nice, serene kind of Solstice Circle. No jingling bells or
>filked-out Christmas Carols. Soon after the last coven member left, Jack
>was ready to pack it in.
>
>"The baby's nestled all snug in her bed," he said with a yawn, "I think
>I'll go settle in for a long winter's nap."
>
>I heaved a martyred sigh. He grinned unrepentantly, kissed me, called
>me a grinch, and went to bed. I stayed up and puttered around the house,
>trying to unwind. I sifted through the day's mail, ditched the flyers
>urging us to purchase all the Seasonal Joy we could afford or charge. I
>opened the card from his parents. Another sermonette: a manger scene
>and a bible verse, with a handwritten note expressing his mother's
>fervent hope that God's love and Christmas spirit would fill our hearts in
>this blessed season. She means well, really. I amused myself by picking
>out every pagan element I could find in the card.
>
>When the mail had been sorted, I got up and started turning our ritual
>room back into a living room. As if the greeting card had carried a
>virus, I found myself humming Christmas
>carols. I turned on the classic rock station, but they were playing
>that Lennon-Ono Christmas song. I switched stations. The weatherman
>assured me that there was only a twenty percent chance of snow. Then, by
>Loki, the deejay let Bruce Springsteen insult my ears crooning, "yah better
>watch out, yah better not pout." I tried the Oldies
>station. Elvis lives, and he does Christmas songs. Okay, fine. We'll do
>classical--no, we won't. They're playing Handel's Messiah. Maybe the
>community radio station would have something secular humanist.
>
>"Ahora, escucharemos a Jose Feliciano canta `Feliz Navidad'."
>
>I was getting annoyed. The radio doesn't usually get this saturated
>with holiday mush until the twenty-fourth.
>
>"This is too weird." I said to the radio, "Cut that crap out."
>
>The country station had some Kenny Rogers Christmas tune, the first
>rock station had gone from John and Yoko's Christmas song to Simon and
>Garfunkel's "Silent Night," and the other rock station still had
>Springsteen reliving his childhood. "--I'm tellin' you why. Santa Claus is
>comin' to town!" he bellowed.
>
>I was about to pick out a nice secular CD when there was a knock at the
>door. Now, it could have been a coven member who'd forgotten something.
>It could have been someone with car trouble. It could have been any
>number of things, but it certainly couldn't have been a stout guy in a red
>suit--snowy beard, rosy cheeks, and all--backed by eight reindeer and a
>sleigh. I blinked, wondered crazily where
>Rudolph was, and blinked again. There were nine reindeer. Our
>twenty-percent chance of snow had frosted the dead grass and was continuing
>to
>float down in fat flakes.
>
>"Hi, Frannie." he said warmly, "I've missed you."
>
>"I'm stone cold sober, and you don't exist."
>
>He looked at me with a mixture of sorrow and compassion and sighed
>heavily.
>
>"That's why I miss you, Frannie. Can I come in? We need to talk."
>
>I couldn't quite bring myself to slam the door on this vision,
>hallucination, or whatever. So I let him in, because that made more
>sense then letting all the cold air in while I argued with someone who
>wasn't there.
>
>As he stepped in, a thought crossed my mind about various entities
>needing an invitation to get in houses. He flashed me
>a smile that would melt the polar caps.
>
>"Don't you miss Christmas, Frannie?"
>
>"No." I said flatly, "Apparently you don't see me when I'm sleeping and
>waking these days. I haven't been Christian for
>years."
>
>"Oh, now don't let that stop you. We both know this holiday's older
>than that. Yule trees and Saturnalia and here-comes-the-sun,
>doodoodendoodoo."
>
>I raised an eyebrow at the Beatles reference, then gave him my standard
>sermonette on the appropriation and adulteration that made Christmas no
>longer a Pagan holiday. I had done my homework. I listed centuries, I
>named names--St. Nicholas among them.
>
>"In the twentieth century version," I assured him, "Christmas is two
>parts crass commercialism mixed with one part blind
>faith in a religion I rejected years ago." I gave him my best
>lines, the ones that had convinced my coven to abstain from Christmassy
>cliches. My hallucination sat in Jack's favorite chair, nodding
>patiently at me.
>
>"And you," I added nastily,"come here talking about ancient customs
>when you--in your current form--were invented in the nineteenth century
>by, um...Clement C. Moore."
>
>He laughed, a rolling, belly-deep chuckle unlike any
>department-store Santa I'd ever heard.
>
>"Of course I change my form now and then to suit fashion. Don't you?
>And does that stop you from being yourself?" He said, and asked me if I
>remembered Real Magic, by Isaac Bonewits.
>
>I gaped at him for a moment, then caught myself. "This is like
>`Labyrinth', right? I'm having a dream that pretends to be real, but is
>only made from pieces of things in my memory. You don't look a thing
>like David Bowie."
>
>"Bonewits has this Switchboard Theory." Santa went on
>amiably, "The energy you put into your beliefs influences the real
>existence of the archetypal--oh, let me put it simpler: `in the beginning,
>Man created God'. Ian Anderson."
>
>He lit a long-stemmed pipe. The tobacco had a mild and
>somehow Christmassy smell, and every puff sent up a wreath of smoke.
>"I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than Bonewits tells it, but
>that's close enough for mortals. Are you with me so far?"
>
>"Oh, sure." I lied as unconvincingly as possible.
>
>Santa sighed heavily.
>
>"When's the last time you left out milk and cookies for me?"
>
>"When I figured out my parents were eating them."
>
>"Frannie, Frannie. Remember pinda balls, from Hinduism?"
>
>"Rice balls left as offerings for ancestors and gods."
>
>"Do Hindus really believe that the ancestors and gods eat pinda balls?"
>
>"All right, y'got me there. They say that spirits consume the spiritual
>essence, then mortals can have what's left."
>
>
>"Mm-hm." Santa smiled at me compassionately through his snowy beard.
>
>I rallied quickly. "What about the toys? I know for a fact they
>aren't made by you and a bunch of non-union elves."
>
>"Oh, that's quite true. Manufacturing physical objects out of magical
>energy is terribly expensive and breaks several laws
>of Nature--She only allows us to do that on special occasions. It
>certainly couldn't be done globally and annually. Now, the missus and the
>elves and I really do have a shop at the North Pole. Not the sort of
>thing the Air Force would ever find. What we make up there is what makes
>this
>time a holiday, no matter what religion it's called."
>
>"Don't tell me," I said, rolling my eyes, "you make the sun come back."
>
>"Oh my, no. The solar cycle stuff, the Reason For The
>Season, isn't my department. My part is making it a holiday. We make a
>mild, non-addictive psychedelic thing called Christmas spirit. Try
>some."
>
>He dipped his fingers in a pocket and tossed red-gold-green -silver
>glitter at me. I could have ducked. I don't know why I didn't.
>
>It smelled like snow, and pine needles, and cedar chips in the
>fireplace. It smelled like fruitcake, like roast turkey, like that foamy
>white
>stuff you spray on the window with stencils. It felt like a crisp wind,
>Grandma's hugs, fuzzy new mittens, pine needles scrunching under my
>slippers. I saw twinkly lights, mistletoe in the doorway, smiling faces
>from years gone by. Several Christmas carols played almost simultaneously
>in a kind of medley. I fought my way back to my living room and glared
>sternly at the hallucination in
>Jack's chair.
>
>"Fun stuff. Does the DEA know about this?"
>
>"Oh, Frannie. Why are you such a hard case? I told you it's
>non-addictive and has no harmful side effects. Would Santa
>Claus lie to you?"
>
>I opened my mouth and closed it again. We looked at each other a while.
>
>"Can I have some more of that glittery stuff?"
>
>"Mmmm. I think you need something stronger. Try a
>sugarplum."
>
>I tasted rum ball. Peppermint. Those hard candies with the picture all
>the way through. Mama's favorite fudge. A chorus
>line of Christmas candies danced through my mouth. The Swedish Angel
>Chimes, run on candle power, say tingatingatingating. Mama, with a funny
>smile, promised to give Santa my letter.
>
>Greeting cards taped on the refrigerator door. We rode
>through the tree farm on a straw-filled trailer pulled by a red
>and green tractor, looking for a perfect pine. It was so big,
>Daddy had to cut a bit off so the star wouldn't scrape the ceiling.
>Lights, ornaments, tinsel. Daddy lifted me up to the mantle to hang my
>stocking. My dolls stayed up to see Santa Claus, and in the morning they
>all had new clothes. Grandma carried in a platter with the world's
>biggest turkey, and I got the drumstick. Joey's Christmas puppy chased my
>Christmas kitten up the tree and it would have fallen over but Daddy held
>it while Mama got the kitten out. Daddy said
>every bad word there was but he kept laughing anyway. I sneaked my
>favorite plastic horse into the nativity scene, between the camels and the
>donkey.
>
>I came back to reality slowly, with a silly smile on my face and a
>tickly feeling behind my eyes like they wanted to cry.
>The phrase "visions of sugarplums" took on a whole new
>meaning.
>
>"How long has it been," Santa asked, "since you played
>with a nativity set?-"
>
>"But it symbolizes--"
>
>"The winter-born king. The sacred Mother and her sun-child. Got a
>problem with that? You could redecorate it with
>pentagrams if you like, they'll look fine. As for the Christianization,
>I've heard who you invoke at Imbolc."
>
>"But Bridgid was a Goddess for centuries before the
>Catholic Church-oh." I crossed my arms and tried to glare at him, but
>failed. "You're a sneaky old elf, y'know?"
>
>"The term is `jolly old elf.' Care for another sugarplum?"
>
>I did. I tasted gingerbread. My first nip of eggnog the way the
>grown-ups drink it. Fresh sugar cookies, shaped like trees
>and decked with colored frosting. Dad had been laid off, but we managed
>a lot of cheer. They told us Christmas would be "slim pickings." Joey
>and I smiled bravely when Mama brought home that spindly spruce. We
>loaded down our "Charlie Brown Christmas Tree" with every light and
>ornament it could hold. Popcorn and cranberry strings for the outdoor
>trees.
>Mistletoe in the hall: plastic mistletoe, real kisses. Joey and I
>snipped and glued and stitched and painted treasures to give as presents.
>We
>agonized over our "Santa" letters...by now we knew where the goodies
>came from, and we tried to compromise between what we longed for and what
>we thought they could afford. Every day we hoped the factory would
>reopen. When Joey's dog ate my
>mitten, I wasn't brave. I knew that meant I'd get mittens for
>Christmas, and one less toy. I cried. On December twenty-fifth we opened
>our
>presents ve-ery slo-wly, drawing out the experience. We made a show of
>cheer over our socks and shirts and meager haul of toys. I got red
>mittens. We could tell Mama and Daddy were proud of us for being so
>brave, because they were grinning like crazy.
>
>"Go out to the garage for apples." Mama told us, "We'll have apple
>pancakes."
>
>I don't remember having the pancakes. There was a
>dollhouse in the garage. No mass-produced aluminum thing but a homemade
>plywood dollhouse with wall-papered walls and real curtains and
>thread-spool
>chairs. My dolls were inside, with newly sewn clothes. Joey was on his
>knees in front of a plywood barn with hay in the
>loft. His old farm implements had new paint. Our plastic animals were
>corralled in popsicle stick fences. The garage smelled like apples and
>hay, the cement was bone-chilling under my slippers, and I was crying.
>
>My knees were drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped
>around them. My chest felt tight, like ice cracking in sunshine. Santa
>offered me a huge white handkerchief. When all the ice in my chest had
>melted, he cleared his throat. He was pretty misty-eyed, too.
>
>"Want to come sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?"
>
>"You've already given it to me." But I sat on his lap anyway, and
>kissed his rosy cheek until he did his famous laugh.
>
>"I'd better go now, Frannie. I have other stops to make, and you have
>work to do."
>
>"Right. I'd better pop the corn tonight, it strings best when it's
>stale."
>
>I let him out the door. The reindeer were pawing impatiently at the
>moon-kissed new-fallen snow. I'd swear Rudolph winked at me.
>
>"Don't forget the milk and cookies."
>
>"Right. Uh, December twenty-fourth, or Solstice, or what?"
>
>He shrugged. "Whatever night you expect me, I'll be there. Eh, don't
>wait up. Visits like this are tightly rationed. Laws
>of Nature, y'know, and She's strict with them."
>
>"Gotcha. Thanks, Santa." I kissed his cheek again. "Happy Holidays."
>
>The phrase had a nice, non-denominational ring to it. I thought I'd
>call my parents and in-laws soon and try it out on
>them.
>
>Santa laid his finger aside of his nose and nodded.
>
>"Blessed be, Frannie."
>
>The sleigh soared up, and Santa really did exclaim something. It
>sounded like old German. Smart-aleck elf.
>
>When I closed the door, the radio was playing Jethro Tull's "Solstice
>Bells."
>
:D
Five minutes before the Winter Solstice circle was scheduled to begin,
>my mother called. Since I'm the only one in our
>coven who doesn't run on Pagan Standard Time, I took the call. Half the
>people hadn't arrived, and those who had wouldn't settle down to
>business for at least twenty minutes.
>
>"Merry Christmas, Frannie."
>
>"Hi, Mom. I don't do Christmas."
>
>"Maybe not--but I do, so I'll say it." she told me in her sassy
>voice, kind of sweet and vinegary at the same time. "If I can respect
>your freedom of religion, you can respect my freedom of speech."
>
>I grinned and rolled my eyes. "And the score is Mom -one, Fran -
>nothing. But I love you, anyway."
>
>People were bustling around in the next room, setting up the altar,
>decking the halls with what I considered excessive amounts of holly and
>ivy, and singing something like, "O, Solstice Tree."
>
>"It sounds like a...holiday party." Mom said.
>
>"We're doing Winter Solstice tonight."
>
>"Oh. That's sort of like your version of Christmas, right?"
>
>I wanted to snap back that Christmas was the Christian
>version of Solstice, but I held back.
>
>"We celebrate the return of the sun. It's a lot quieter than
>Christmas. No shopping sprees, no pine needles and tinsel on the floor,
>and it doesn't wipe me out. I remember how you
>had always worked yourself to a frazzle by December 26."
>
>"Oh honey, I loved doing all that stuff. I wouldn't trade those
>memories for all the spare time in the world. I wish you and Jack would
>loosen up a little for the baby's sake. When you were little, you
>enjoyed Easter bunnies and trick-or-treating and Christmas things. Since
>you've gotten into this Wicca religion, you sound a lot like Aunt Betty
>the year she was a Jehovah's Witness."
>
>I laughed nervously. "Yeah. How is Aunt Betty?"
>
>"Fine. She's into the Celestine Prophecy now, and she seems quite
>happy. Y'know," she went on, "Aunt Betty always said the Jehovah's
>Witnesses
>said those holiday things were pagan. So Idon't see why you've given
>them up."
>
>"Uh, they've been commercialized and polluted beyond
>recognition. We're into very simple, quiet celebrations."
>
>"Well," she said dubiously, "as long as you're happy."
>
>Sometimes long distance is better than being there, 'cause your mother
>can't give you the look that makes you agree
>with everything she says. Jack rescued me by interrupting.
>
>Hi, Ma." he called to the phone as he waved a beribboned sprig of
>mistletoe over my head. Then he kissed me, one of
>those quick noisy ones. I frowned at him.
>
>"Druidic tradition, Fran. Swear to Goddess."
>
>"Of course it is. Did the Druids use plastic berries?"
>
>"Always. We'll be needing you in about five minutes."
>
>"Okay. Gotta go, Mom. Love you."
>
>We had a nice, serene kind of Solstice Circle. No jingling bells or
>filked-out Christmas Carols. Soon after the last coven member left, Jack
>was ready to pack it in.
>
>"The baby's nestled all snug in her bed," he said with a yawn, "I think
>I'll go settle in for a long winter's nap."
>
>I heaved a martyred sigh. He grinned unrepentantly, kissed me, called
>me a grinch, and went to bed. I stayed up and puttered around the house,
>trying to unwind. I sifted through the day's mail, ditched the flyers
>urging us to purchase all the Seasonal Joy we could afford or charge. I
>opened the card from his parents. Another sermonette: a manger scene
>and a bible verse, with a handwritten note expressing his mother's
>fervent hope that God's love and Christmas spirit would fill our hearts in
>this blessed season. She means well, really. I amused myself by picking
>out every pagan element I could find in the card.
>
>When the mail had been sorted, I got up and started turning our ritual
>room back into a living room. As if the greeting card had carried a
>virus, I found myself humming Christmas
>carols. I turned on the classic rock station, but they were playing
>that Lennon-Ono Christmas song. I switched stations. The weatherman
>assured me that there was only a twenty percent chance of snow. Then, by
>Loki, the deejay let Bruce Springsteen insult my ears crooning, "yah better
>watch out, yah better not pout." I tried the Oldies
>station. Elvis lives, and he does Christmas songs. Okay, fine. We'll do
>classical--no, we won't. They're playing Handel's Messiah. Maybe the
>community radio station would have something secular humanist.
>
>"Ahora, escucharemos a Jose Feliciano canta `Feliz Navidad'."
>
>I was getting annoyed. The radio doesn't usually get this saturated
>with holiday mush until the twenty-fourth.
>
>"This is too weird." I said to the radio, "Cut that crap out."
>
>The country station had some Kenny Rogers Christmas tune, the first
>rock station had gone from John and Yoko's Christmas song to Simon and
>Garfunkel's "Silent Night," and the other rock station still had
>Springsteen reliving his childhood. "--I'm tellin' you why. Santa Claus is
>comin' to town!" he bellowed.
>
>I was about to pick out a nice secular CD when there was a knock at the
>door. Now, it could have been a coven member who'd forgotten something.
>It could have been someone with car trouble. It could have been any
>number of things, but it certainly couldn't have been a stout guy in a red
>suit--snowy beard, rosy cheeks, and all--backed by eight reindeer and a
>sleigh. I blinked, wondered crazily where
>Rudolph was, and blinked again. There were nine reindeer. Our
>twenty-percent chance of snow had frosted the dead grass and was continuing
>to
>float down in fat flakes.
>
>"Hi, Frannie." he said warmly, "I've missed you."
>
>"I'm stone cold sober, and you don't exist."
>
>He looked at me with a mixture of sorrow and compassion and sighed
>heavily.
>
>"That's why I miss you, Frannie. Can I come in? We need to talk."
>
>I couldn't quite bring myself to slam the door on this vision,
>hallucination, or whatever. So I let him in, because that made more
>sense then letting all the cold air in while I argued with someone who
>wasn't there.
>
>As he stepped in, a thought crossed my mind about various entities
>needing an invitation to get in houses. He flashed me
>a smile that would melt the polar caps.
>
>"Don't you miss Christmas, Frannie?"
>
>"No." I said flatly, "Apparently you don't see me when I'm sleeping and
>waking these days. I haven't been Christian for
>years."
>
>"Oh, now don't let that stop you. We both know this holiday's older
>than that. Yule trees and Saturnalia and here-comes-the-sun,
>doodoodendoodoo."
>
>I raised an eyebrow at the Beatles reference, then gave him my standard
>sermonette on the appropriation and adulteration that made Christmas no
>longer a Pagan holiday. I had done my homework. I listed centuries, I
>named names--St. Nicholas among them.
>
>"In the twentieth century version," I assured him, "Christmas is two
>parts crass commercialism mixed with one part blind
>faith in a religion I rejected years ago." I gave him my best
>lines, the ones that had convinced my coven to abstain from Christmassy
>cliches. My hallucination sat in Jack's favorite chair, nodding
>patiently at me.
>
>"And you," I added nastily,"come here talking about ancient customs
>when you--in your current form--were invented in the nineteenth century
>by, um...Clement C. Moore."
>
>He laughed, a rolling, belly-deep chuckle unlike any
>department-store Santa I'd ever heard.
>
>"Of course I change my form now and then to suit fashion. Don't you?
>And does that stop you from being yourself?" He said, and asked me if I
>remembered Real Magic, by Isaac Bonewits.
>
>I gaped at him for a moment, then caught myself. "This is like
>`Labyrinth', right? I'm having a dream that pretends to be real, but is
>only made from pieces of things in my memory. You don't look a thing
>like David Bowie."
>
>"Bonewits has this Switchboard Theory." Santa went on
>amiably, "The energy you put into your beliefs influences the real
>existence of the archetypal--oh, let me put it simpler: `in the beginning,
>Man created God'. Ian Anderson."
>
>He lit a long-stemmed pipe. The tobacco had a mild and
>somehow Christmassy smell, and every puff sent up a wreath of smoke.
>"I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than Bonewits tells it, but
>that's close enough for mortals. Are you with me so far?"
>
>"Oh, sure." I lied as unconvincingly as possible.
>
>Santa sighed heavily.
>
>"When's the last time you left out milk and cookies for me?"
>
>"When I figured out my parents were eating them."
>
>"Frannie, Frannie. Remember pinda balls, from Hinduism?"
>
>"Rice balls left as offerings for ancestors and gods."
>
>"Do Hindus really believe that the ancestors and gods eat pinda balls?"
>
>"All right, y'got me there. They say that spirits consume the spiritual
>essence, then mortals can have what's left."
>
>
>"Mm-hm." Santa smiled at me compassionately through his snowy beard.
>
>I rallied quickly. "What about the toys? I know for a fact they
>aren't made by you and a bunch of non-union elves."
>
>"Oh, that's quite true. Manufacturing physical objects out of magical
>energy is terribly expensive and breaks several laws
>of Nature--She only allows us to do that on special occasions. It
>certainly couldn't be done globally and annually. Now, the missus and the
>elves and I really do have a shop at the North Pole. Not the sort of
>thing the Air Force would ever find. What we make up there is what makes
>this
>time a holiday, no matter what religion it's called."
>
>"Don't tell me," I said, rolling my eyes, "you make the sun come back."
>
>"Oh my, no. The solar cycle stuff, the Reason For The
>Season, isn't my department. My part is making it a holiday. We make a
>mild, non-addictive psychedelic thing called Christmas spirit. Try
>some."
>
>He dipped his fingers in a pocket and tossed red-gold-green -silver
>glitter at me. I could have ducked. I don't know why I didn't.
>
>It smelled like snow, and pine needles, and cedar chips in the
>fireplace. It smelled like fruitcake, like roast turkey, like that foamy
>white
>stuff you spray on the window with stencils. It felt like a crisp wind,
>Grandma's hugs, fuzzy new mittens, pine needles scrunching under my
>slippers. I saw twinkly lights, mistletoe in the doorway, smiling faces
>from years gone by. Several Christmas carols played almost simultaneously
>in a kind of medley. I fought my way back to my living room and glared
>sternly at the hallucination in
>Jack's chair.
>
>"Fun stuff. Does the DEA know about this?"
>
>"Oh, Frannie. Why are you such a hard case? I told you it's
>non-addictive and has no harmful side effects. Would Santa
>Claus lie to you?"
>
>I opened my mouth and closed it again. We looked at each other a while.
>
>"Can I have some more of that glittery stuff?"
>
>"Mmmm. I think you need something stronger. Try a
>sugarplum."
>
>I tasted rum ball. Peppermint. Those hard candies with the picture all
>the way through. Mama's favorite fudge. A chorus
>line of Christmas candies danced through my mouth. The Swedish Angel
>Chimes, run on candle power, say tingatingatingating. Mama, with a funny
>smile, promised to give Santa my letter.
>
>Greeting cards taped on the refrigerator door. We rode
>through the tree farm on a straw-filled trailer pulled by a red
>and green tractor, looking for a perfect pine. It was so big,
>Daddy had to cut a bit off so the star wouldn't scrape the ceiling.
>Lights, ornaments, tinsel. Daddy lifted me up to the mantle to hang my
>stocking. My dolls stayed up to see Santa Claus, and in the morning they
>all had new clothes. Grandma carried in a platter with the world's
>biggest turkey, and I got the drumstick. Joey's Christmas puppy chased my
>Christmas kitten up the tree and it would have fallen over but Daddy held
>it while Mama got the kitten out. Daddy said
>every bad word there was but he kept laughing anyway. I sneaked my
>favorite plastic horse into the nativity scene, between the camels and the
>donkey.
>
>I came back to reality slowly, with a silly smile on my face and a
>tickly feeling behind my eyes like they wanted to cry.
>The phrase "visions of sugarplums" took on a whole new
>meaning.
>
>"How long has it been," Santa asked, "since you played
>with a nativity set?-"
>
>"But it symbolizes--"
>
>"The winter-born king. The sacred Mother and her sun-child. Got a
>problem with that? You could redecorate it with
>pentagrams if you like, they'll look fine. As for the Christianization,
>I've heard who you invoke at Imbolc."
>
>"But Bridgid was a Goddess for centuries before the
>Catholic Church-oh." I crossed my arms and tried to glare at him, but
>failed. "You're a sneaky old elf, y'know?"
>
>"The term is `jolly old elf.' Care for another sugarplum?"
>
>I did. I tasted gingerbread. My first nip of eggnog the way the
>grown-ups drink it. Fresh sugar cookies, shaped like trees
>and decked with colored frosting. Dad had been laid off, but we managed
>a lot of cheer. They told us Christmas would be "slim pickings." Joey
>and I smiled bravely when Mama brought home that spindly spruce. We
>loaded down our "Charlie Brown Christmas Tree" with every light and
>ornament it could hold. Popcorn and cranberry strings for the outdoor
>trees.
>Mistletoe in the hall: plastic mistletoe, real kisses. Joey and I
>snipped and glued and stitched and painted treasures to give as presents.
>We
>agonized over our "Santa" letters...by now we knew where the goodies
>came from, and we tried to compromise between what we longed for and what
>we thought they could afford. Every day we hoped the factory would
>reopen. When Joey's dog ate my
>mitten, I wasn't brave. I knew that meant I'd get mittens for
>Christmas, and one less toy. I cried. On December twenty-fifth we opened
>our
>presents ve-ery slo-wly, drawing out the experience. We made a show of
>cheer over our socks and shirts and meager haul of toys. I got red
>mittens. We could tell Mama and Daddy were proud of us for being so
>brave, because they were grinning like crazy.
>
>"Go out to the garage for apples." Mama told us, "We'll have apple
>pancakes."
>
>I don't remember having the pancakes. There was a
>dollhouse in the garage. No mass-produced aluminum thing but a homemade
>plywood dollhouse with wall-papered walls and real curtains and
>thread-spool
>chairs. My dolls were inside, with newly sewn clothes. Joey was on his
>knees in front of a plywood barn with hay in the
>loft. His old farm implements had new paint. Our plastic animals were
>corralled in popsicle stick fences. The garage smelled like apples and
>hay, the cement was bone-chilling under my slippers, and I was crying.
>
>My knees were drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped
>around them. My chest felt tight, like ice cracking in sunshine. Santa
>offered me a huge white handkerchief. When all the ice in my chest had
>melted, he cleared his throat. He was pretty misty-eyed, too.
>
>"Want to come sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?"
>
>"You've already given it to me." But I sat on his lap anyway, and
>kissed his rosy cheek until he did his famous laugh.
>
>"I'd better go now, Frannie. I have other stops to make, and you have
>work to do."
>
>"Right. I'd better pop the corn tonight, it strings best when it's
>stale."
>
>I let him out the door. The reindeer were pawing impatiently at the
>moon-kissed new-fallen snow. I'd swear Rudolph winked at me.
>
>"Don't forget the milk and cookies."
>
>"Right. Uh, December twenty-fourth, or Solstice, or what?"
>
>He shrugged. "Whatever night you expect me, I'll be there. Eh, don't
>wait up. Visits like this are tightly rationed. Laws
>of Nature, y'know, and She's strict with them."
>
>"Gotcha. Thanks, Santa." I kissed his cheek again. "Happy Holidays."
>
>The phrase had a nice, non-denominational ring to it. I thought I'd
>call my parents and in-laws soon and try it out on
>them.
>
>Santa laid his finger aside of his nose and nodded.
>
>"Blessed be, Frannie."
>
>The sleigh soared up, and Santa really did exclaim something. It
>sounded like old German. Smart-aleck elf.
>
>When I closed the door, the radio was playing Jethro Tull's "Solstice
>Bells."
>
:D