Three Christmas Snapshots

Originally Written between 2013-2015        

Since we just finished celebrating the holidays with our families, I’d like to talk about Santa Claus and why at the age of 11, I was still a “believer.”  

My family’s tradition was to open up our presents on Christmas Eve (after we ate, did the dishes, cleaned up, and got into our jammies, of course.)  I’m sure you all remember how very hard it was to fall asleep on that celebrated night.  Well, I was no exception.  Eventually, I fell asleep; but, by 5:00 in the morning, I, along with my brother and sister, were downstairs opening up our presents from Santa.  Mom and Dad eventually joined us and acted very surprised when each of us showed them what Santa had left for us.  

When I was showing my new white figure ice skates to my mom, I noticed that the numbers 199 were written in black on the grey skate guards that came with my present from Santa.  Already a questionable believer and thinking that 199 meant that the skate guards cost $1.99, I asked mom what she thought 199 meant.  Not missing a beat, mom said that the Vogel household was the one hundred and ninety ninth house on Santa’s route that night.  And so, I believed for another year!

 

 Another Christmas story – many years later when my own kids were in their teens.  I have named this:  The Christmas Mom Said the “F” Word.  Now, you have probably figured out by now with all of my stories that I usually go by the rule book.  I don’t take unnecessary risks but still have fun and wonderful adventures.  I was raised in a family that didn’t swear or take God’s name in vain.  Now, I know mom and dad all had their “moments” – and so did my brother and sister --.  But, straight-laced Mary never said the famous “F” word.  It just doesn’t make sense to me to use that sort of language.  And, so I don’t.

Anyway, for many years, I had a tradition of making holiday cookies from my grandma’s recipes.  One year, I took a cake-decorating class and learned how to create Santa Claus on “slice-and-bake” sugar cookies.  One year, when our youngest, Rebecca, was around 11, she decided to bake the cookies and her older brothers, ages 15, 17, and 20 offered to create Santa Claus on each cookie.  My job was to prepare the frosting.

So, now the cookies are baked, the frosting is in the decorating bags with the appropriate tips, and the three “men” are having a good time making Santa Claus do horrible and obscene things with his mouth, hands, and fingers.  Poor Rebecca….. she had spent so much time baking the cookies and getting them perfect.  Now, she was crying and getting hysterical because her brothers were slaughtering her cookies.  The boys were laughing and making fun of their sister.  Rebecca was crying and yelling, “make them stop, mom.”  Well, I sprung into action.  I yelled at the top of my voice, “All of you – shut the “F…” up!  Michael – you get downstairs!  David and John – upstairs!  Rebecca – stop your crying and go to your room!”  Believe me….. they had never heard that word come out of my mouth before and it must have made quite an impression on them because they did exactly what I told them to do.  That had never happened before…. Or since!  Maybe I should use that word more often??? 

 

Another Christmas cookie story:  Forty years ago, ten of the women on our block of Jackson Street in Spring Lake Park decided to host a cookie exchange.  That is where each person takes one cookie recipe and makes a dozen for each one at the party.  In that way, we have 10 different types of cookies to serve during the holidays.  Well, one year, I got started early on my baking because Norm and I were hosting four separate parties during the season and I needed a lot of cookies in addition to the ones for our Cookie Exchange.

And so, after work, dinner, and dishes each day for two weeks, I baked cookies and bars, made fudge and other candies.  Now – my dilemma.  Where do I store them until the parties start?  My freezer in the basement, of course.  But, I needed more room.  So, since it was wintertime, the obvious choice was the outdoor freezer – the tool bench in our garage.  And so, the cookies were lovingly placed in large boxes and cookie tins with the words “DO NOT TOUCH OR EAT.  THESE ARE FOR MOM’S CHRISTMAS PARTIES!” printed on each container.

Finally, the night of our first party.  I found my beautiful holiday serving plates and went to the basement to get the cookies.  I discovered, however, that in each tin, there were only one or two cookies!   I ran out to the garage to search for the other cookies and there, too, each box or tin had only one or two!

I was in such a panic!  I told the boys to come to the kitchen and asked them if they knew what happened to all my treats.  They admitted that every day after school, they each took a couple of cookies out of the tins – thinking that even though I wrote DO NOT EAT …. I must have meant Norm – or a burglar – certainly not Michael, David, or John!

What was I to do?  The party was to start in about an hour and I had about one dozen cookies to serve to two-dozen guests!  I sent Michael (since he was the oldest and the one who ate most of the cookies) to the PDQ down the block to buy lots of cookies.  I didn’t care how old they were or even if they tasted okay, I just needed some to fill up the plates.  

I bet you are now wondering why I only said the “F” word once!  So am I.