Merry Christmas

“You better not cry,

you better not pout,

you better watch out,

I’m telling you why,

Santa Claus is coming to town.”

Christmas 1955 wasn’t my first but it was one of my most memorable.

I had just turned 10. We lived in a large, yellow and brown, two-story home in Paramus that my parents, Sid and Rose, bought after the war. It had a big backyard and a smaller front yard with neighbors who all moved out of the city for the same reasons that we did and who all had the same kind and sizes of houses and lots.

Like many other families, my parents wanted to get out of the city and its crowded, smelly, noisy streets and into the shiny new promised land of green lawns and suburbia. And they did.

My brother, Tommy, slept in the bunk bed above me, my sister, Angie, had her own room and my mom and dad slept in the big bedroom at the end of the hall. Sandy, our big old lovable golden retriever, always slept in bed with my parents. More often than not, Sandy plopped right in the middle, forcing my parents to sleep on the edges of the bed, hoping not to tumble to the floor. I admit I heard more than a few thuds over the years.

I woke up around 6 in the morning and it was still dark outside. I could see the snow falling in the light of the street lamps and to say I was thrilled would be the understatement of the century. I looked out the window and saw there was probably a good foot of snow on the ground. And it was perfectly still.

I had to be careful not to wake up my brother or do anything that would put Sandy to barking. It was challenging because I couldn’t put the light on. In the dark, very quietly, I put on my Christmas slippers with Santa on each foot and my blue, terry cloth bathrobe. It had a belt that was so long that I could wrap it around my little waste twice.

Once in the hall, I could see a light on in the living room. I was pretty much through with Santa by my age but hope ran eternal. My brother and sister both teased me because I still clung to the possibility that Santa was the real deal.

I tip toed down the copper colored, carpeted stairs and I could see the living room and the big picture window. I could hear the faint sounds of Christmas songs on the record player in the corner of the room. A very tall Christmas tree was set up next to the piano, complete with a million lights and ornaments including a carrot that I got two Christmases ago.

I wasn’t surprised but I was a bit disappointed. My childhood had finally come to a crashing end. It was not Santa putting one more wrapped gift under the tree. Instead, it was my father. There was a Lucky Strike cigarette burning in the ash tray and he had a cup of coffee on the table as he dragged the wrapped gifts up from the basement.

My father always loved the holidays. He grew up with five brothers and six sisters and they were taught that there was nothing more important than the family. And that Christmas was the most important time to give thanks to and for us all.

My father was a very tall man, I’d say at least six-foot-five. He also was very thin. He was an Army veteran of World War II, having been deployed to the fight at the bloody, Battle of the Bulge at the ripe age of 19. He wore a bright red bathrobe that my mom had gotten him last Christmas. They got along well except she was always telling him to stop smoking.

All I remember is there were a lot of presents under the tree. They were all different sizes and all wrapped in different colors. Each of us knew who got what presents because we had our names on them. I used to be amazed that Santa knew all of our names from the millions of kids all over.

I very quietly went back upstairs, making sure my father couldn’t hear me. I got to my room, kicked off my slippers with the Santas on them and took off the bathrobe with the belt that fit twice around me. My brother was still three sheets to the wind.

It seemed like an eternity but it was really only about a half hour later when my mom called us to come down for presents. I bounced up, my brother bounced up and my sister raced to the top of the stairs, hoping to beat us to the tree. We were greeted by a loud “merry Christmas” from our parents. Each of us returned the salutation.

But first, tradition dictated that we had breakfast. It was always the same: Bacon, eggs, toast, orange juice, milk and fruitcake. I ate so fast that I could barely taste it. I wanted my gifts.

We either all went to the tree or none of us went. My brother ate slowly and he made us wait an excruciatingly long five minutes more. I think he did it for spite. But he finished and we all marched for our rewards.

My mom handed me my gift first, probably because I was the youngest. Our family tradition was that each of us opened our gift before moving on to the next kid or parent.

Mine was in a very big box. I really had no idea what it was. I kind of let it envelop me in wonder before I started tearing at the red and green wrapping paper. I got the paper off but the box had no words to identify its contents. So I proceeded to ravage the box to get at the booty inside.

And booty it was. I opened the box to find the most incredible rocket launcher that would fit perfectly as part of my Lionel train set with the O-gauge tracks and a locomotive that belched out real, fake smoke. The rocket had a range of at least half a room and the launcher was detailed to real-life specifications or so it said on the box.

And that was it, one of my most memorable Christmases ever. I can’t remember much more as I was in a state of euphoria that would never again be surpassed or even matched.

Actually, none of it happened. As Jews, we didn’t celebrate Christmas and had to settle for Hanukkah. My father was short with a big belly and he smoked like a chimney. He served in the Merchant Marine before the war and drove a truck. He was sick for many years before he died when I was 10.

My mother kept kosher and always believed that the goyim would some day get us. And my relationship with my sister and brother was not exactly the Ozzie and Harriet family.

As for the house, we did live in Paramus. But the house was small, with two bedrooms and a small backyard. And we had a dog. It was hardly a golden retriever. He was a small lovable mutt named Tuffy and he used to run out of the house and tear the laundry from our neighbors’ clothes lines.

But hey it’s better than writing about COVID 19 or Donald Trump.