When I was a child, (which my kids think I still am), the Christmas Season was my absolute favorite time of year. I was up to my eyeballs in snow, which my father had to shovel. My parents would get the Christmas tree, and I got to watch as they decorated it.
My mother would not allow her first born, left handed son, anywhere near anything which was even potentially breakable.
Come to think of it, she still doesn't.
To this day, I still feel slighted, as I was personally responsible for the acquisition of a myriad of new dinnerware my dad bought for the family, to replace what I had knocked to the floor from the table that week. The realization that I was merely the human equivalent of urban
renewal for her dinner service, has still not revealed itself to her.
My mother is a Saint. I figure she must be, because until I reached the age of five or six, I believed my first name was "Jesus!"
In my mind, our home was like "The Holy Land", in a manner of speaking. The house was constantly ringing with spiritual talk like, "God, how did he manage to do that?", and "What the hell are you doing now Steve?"
I'm not sure why they talked that way about me. I did exciting, "neighborhood enhancing" things. For instance, once I got the fire department to come over to put out the inferno raging in the debris pile beside our brand new house. This was a direct result of my personal discovery that although it was impossible to ignite rocks and mortar with a magnifying glass, it worked just fine on paper and wood, which has a much lower flash point. And the bigger the pile, the brighter the flames would get, as they licked the bright new white brick on the side of the house.
I figure my mom must be a Saint, either that or she has more faith than anyone in the world, because she had five more children after my arrival. My mother is a very brave woman. And I believe she was rewarded for her strong faith, because my siblings all turned out normal.
Well, maybe there was a slight glitch with one of my brothers, "Big Bad", but it wasn't really his fault. He simply made a poor decision when he was a youngster and tried to emulate his big brother. He is right handed, so it took a lot of hard work for him transform himself into me. He came close a few times, but he never quite reached the pinnacle of ridiculous his big brother had firmly grasped. I am the first born son, and apparently it's my birth right. I feel relieved knowing that in the event of my demise, the heir apparent is firmly entrenched to assume the throne.
So, at this most wonderful time of the year, I revisit my spirituality, on an annual basis.
The more I think about it, maybe my first name was "Jesus", because when I cut into the parking spot at the mall, narrowly edging out that sweet older lady with the white hair, in her urban assault vehicle, she rolled her window down and started calling me that. Well, she also called me a lot of other things as well. I think as you grow older, your vocabulary increases. She really knew a lot of words, and wove them together with a lot of colorful adjectives too. Perhaps she was an English teacher in her youth, because I was awed by the incredible ease and speed with which she delivered her tirade.
I might have gotten upset with her, but she looked like a very sweet lady who was simply having a bad mouth day.
Besides, I had more important and terrifying things on my mind at the time.
Did I mention that going to the dentist is my second least favorite thing to do? Well actually, the proctologist is running neck and neck with the dentist in that race.
Ranking at the top of that list is, goingto the mall, which I was currently in process of doing.
"Full contact shopping", the number one sport in the state these days, is not my idea of a good time.
I recall when my daughter was around five years of age, she looked at me with her big brown, I can get daddy to do anything eyes, and said to me, "Daddy let's go to the mall".
Now, I can't speak for anyone else out there, but that was almost as terrifying as it would be to hear her say she wanted to be a table dancer or something.
Recoiling in horror, I quickly composed myself, and after looking around to make sure neither the dentist nor the proctologist were in the house, I gave, what to this day is the sagest advice I have ever offered her.
"Forget it! Daddy doesn't do the mall". "Ask your mother when she gets home from work."
Smugly proud of myself for diffusing a potentially dangerous situation, I put on the football game, and sighed in relief.
Now, some 15 years and another country later, (well, maybe two countries later, as I had to wend my way through America before arriving in Texas), I prepared myself to enter the fray. My confidence had ebbed somewhat after my testy confrontation with the sweet older lady with the prolific vocabulary, but remembering my days on the hockey rink, I sucked it up, locked the car and walked toward the mall entrance.
Well, I got through the parking lot without too much of a problem, but then I got a touch overconfident. Entering the mall, cockily, I quickly found that I was quite possibly in over my head. The cute little three year old, with the "scaredy cat" father missing in action, giggled as he took my legs out just inside the door. Writhing on the floor I made a mental note to get rid of the David Carr jersey before I attempted another one of these excursions.
Now I have never taken a dance lesson in my life, (which may have been one of the reasons that I have an ex, you can spot her easily, she is the on with the bruised toes), but I performed a near perfect pirouette and assumed the first position. That would be on my butt. (At least
that's the first position I remember being in).
I soon found myself starring in "The Buying Ballet".
I must admit it felt kinda good to be an artistic shopper, for a while. So I ran through the mall gathering up gifts for my relatives, so fast I almost got third degree wind burn.
Grabbing my sack of goodies, I made dash for the exit, and the relative safety of my car. (You know you have a mall problem when you look forward to the drive out of the parking lot). Through the grace of God, I got outta there without running into the evil granny of Houston and her dastardly digit again and wended my way back to home to wrap the gifts I wrestled away from the other bargain hunters.
Then I realized that they needed to be mailed.
That's when I got back into the car and went "Postal".
(Steve wished to express his Christmas cheer with the following poem, a gift to his regular readers...)
THE NIGHT BEFORE TXMAS
'Twas the night before Txmas
And all through the state,
People were yawning
They were up far too late.
The kiddies were quiet,
Tucked in for the night,
To prepare for a Txmas
That wouldn't be white.
While mama in her jammies,
And me in my shorts,
Sat under the tree
For a couple of snorts.
Then up on the rooftop
I heard such a racket
I ran out to see,
...A fat guy, ... in a jacket!
Back into the house
I flew like a goof,
Yelling, "Honey,
Some fat dude is up on the roof!!
And he must have been drinking
A whole bunch of beer,
Cause he's got an old pick up
That's pulled by a steer!".
Then he pulled out his gun,
(With the safety engaged),
And he broke in our house,
(I still don't know which way).
With a bag full of boxes
Slung over his back,
First he went to the kitchen
And swiped a six pack.
Then he tossed back a couple
Of Bud's, ... for a lark,
And then to the tree,
...Where he worked in the dark.
Then when he was done,
(All the presents extruded)
From deep in his bag,
(Damn, ... no batteries included)
He somehow got back
To the truck on the top
Of the roof ,of our house,
(Where he checked for the cops),
And not seeing one,
(I saw the old toad),
Pop the top from a Bud,
Then yell, ... "One for the road.",
And as he flew off
I heard the dude call
(From out the truck window)
" Merry Txmas ....Y'all!!!".
