In the walk we all take from time to time, through our memories to figure out why we are who we are, I discover that, in my memory there are some both endearing and disturbing images. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all, "My mother's the reason I'm a serial killer," on you.
But I will share a candy cane memory.
My Papa (hee...french for Grandfather), was my best friend when I was a little girl. Even though his mail carrier hat smelled of sweat when I wore it around, and he tickled me to death, I thought he was a superhero. Who could've known how close to the truth that that was?
It was Christmas time in Shwaville. The entire week my mum used the promise of a visit to Santa to parent us into being good. We tried our best to be good; my stupid brother and I, and I made my list for Santa, made my bed and even dried the dishes.
My mum would instruct, Think about what you want for Christmas, and then you'll sit on Santa's knee, and you'll tell him what you're hoping for. But he'll only listen if you've been good!
Holy crap, this is practically a lottery! I had listed my very most coveted things; a drum kit, a puppy who doesn't grow & stays a puppy, and for my real family. Yep, my real family. I was convinced that my mum had stolen me, and that my real family, who were royalty and had crazy cash and a new bike for me, were out there somewhere, looking for me to no avail. Santa had to know about this, and he must want me back where I belonged. Besides, my mum had my stupid brother.
Six sleeps and finally, Saturday came. We combed our hair and brushed our teeth and wore the clothes that made us itchy, but we didn't care. Today, was Santa day.
Off we went to the Midtown Mall where there was sure to be an awesome appearance by Santa himself.
Will there be reindeer Mum?
Probably not because they have to rest up for the big night. Christmas Eve the reindeer travel the entire world you know. Maybe they're in training?
We entered the mall all aglow. (I've always wanted to use me and 'aglow' in the same sentence.)
The lights, the wreaths, the garland, the sparkly shiny 1970's. Let's put in the scent of chocolate too, what the hell.
We walked down the longest hallway and got in the longest line up that was bordered with swooping garland with intermittent silver base bars.
I made sure to be so good. No spitting, no poking my stupid drooling baby brother in the eye, no impatient requests. Just making sure that my wish list was handy for Lap Time.
After a few of the longest minutes of all time, I felt a chill.
I heard the bells of Santa.
I heard them jingling in the near distance. Being only 6 yrs old, I couldn't see over the stupid people, but I knew it was him. My premonition was confirmed when I heard him laugh. A deep and hearty and wonderful laugh. Ho Ho Hoooooo Meeeeeeerry Chrrrrrrrristmas.
Oh my goodness, Here he comes.
Will he see me? Does he know my name? Does he think my brother is as stupid as I do? I love Santa.
I heard his boots coming my way. Underneath the shiny garland, I saw the black boots up to his knee with the bag of presents he was towing hitting against them. I saw his hand filled with full size candy canes for all of us. Not those stupid cheap little ones that break when you try to get their plastic off. I was practically peeing myself.
And then, and then
And then I saw his face. His angelic, wait, no angelic but red face. A face with a nose. A face with a nose that looked exactly like my Papa's nose. A face with eyebrows that looked just like my Papa's eyebrows. A laugh that sounded like my Papa's laugh. A belly that was as distented and as hard looking as my Papa's belly.
My head titled, my brows furrowed, my list fell from my hand.
Oh my freaking goodness, Papa IS Santa!!!
The world spun around a few times and my eyes welled with tears. I looked to the devoted elves to make some sense of this, only to be further mortified. The elves with the freaking Polaroid to snap my happy picture were my aunties. My freaking evil, gum chewing, middle school, torture your niece, aunties.
My aunts were only 6 & 7 yrs older than me and therefore involved with my childhood hazing. They were my intermittent older sisters. Their idea of fun was to have me in the stroller and push it over a curb, taking bets on which direction I would fall. Aunts who put clumps of margarine on my hand while I slept so I would stop sucking on my fingers in the night. Aunts who were SANTA'S FUCKING HELPERS??
I pinched my brother to make sure I wasn't dreaming. He cried his stupid baby I- need- something- cry. Crap. Not dreaming.
Mum. That's Papa.
She looks down at me with ha-ha written all over her face. Is it? Noooo.
Liar.
Mum, that's Papa.
He's one of Santa's helpers. Santa can't be in every mall on every Saturday. He's resting up for Christmas Eve. Tell Papa what you would've told Santa and Papa will give him the message.
Give him the message?! About the drum kit that I want to keep in Papa's garage, the non-existent puppy that stays a puppy when I know damn well that Papa hates dogs, oh and don't forget to mention to Papa about my real freaking family. Yeah, that's gonna work.
To this day, I am sure that this event is at the root of any of my neuroses.
ps I love you Papa
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