friday, december 8, 1978
daily nebraskan Christmas supplement
page 13
Continued from page 12.
The younger of the two, a precocious
five-year-old, took the grim news in stride.
"I'm not particularly taken aback by
this revelation of yours," she said and went
back to translating lite IUiad from the
original Greek into Esperanto. This sort of
reaction from her I rather expected.
Undaunted, I proceeded to enlighten the
older of the two, a torn-boyish six-year-old.
At age eight I had rather a sadistic
streak in me and I must admit that the en
suing tears and quivering lower lip of my
sister gave me a great deal of satisfaction.
The feeling disappeared completely when I
turned my back and she bopped me on the
head with her 34-inch Louisville Slugger.
Dutifully I bopped her back.
My mother and father was appalled.
"He's beating his sisters," they wailed.
"Next hell be accosting women in the
street, then murdering in the night and
he'll wind up on a scaffold somewhere and
we won't ever be able to show our faces in
public."
It's surprising how many lessons come
out of incidents like this. That day I learn
ed that dream smashing carries with it great
responsibility, that no matter how hard
you grit your teeth you can't dull the pain
of a hairbrush on the backside, and that
you must never give bad news to a tomboy
without first putting on a football helmet.
Although I was fast becoming a Christ
mas cynic, somewhere deep within the
darkest recesses of my mind lay a faint
glimmer of hope that the disbelievers were
wrong. That little flickering flame was
almost snuffed on my 13th Christmas.
My sisters had gone to bed and my
mother asked me if I wanted to help her
put the presents under the tree and fill the
stockings.
As I placed each gift under the tree I be
came, aware of a creeping, full depression
descending upon me. As I filled my sisters
stockings the sensation sharpened. By the
time my mother asked me to help myself
to the milk and cookies because her colon
was acting up, I was ready to slash my
wrists, drink antifreeze and jump off the
Brooklyn Bridge. What a lousy way to
spend Christmas Eve.
"Ho, ho, ho," I mumbled sarcastically
to myself as I crawled into bed. There were
no visions of sugar plums dancing in my
head that night. I slept fitfully, awaking
occasionally and murmuring "life really
stinks" to die darkness.
In the morning my sisters came bound
ing into my bedroom to inform me that
they couldn't start opening their presents
until I got up. I dragged myself out to the
living room and plopped myself down into
a chair. For some reason there seemed to
be more presents under the tree than I
remembered putting there. Also the stock
ings seemed a lot more full.
We began opening our presents and I
had quite a few more than I bargained for.
I started feeling pretty good. Strange as it
may seem, parents really do get smarter the
older you get. Only a year before I'd
thought Mom was a real airhead but that
day I conceded she probably was a genius.
She had sensed my depression the night
before.
But the crowning glory of the day was
a little box I found in my Christmas stock
ing. My tomboy sister had made me a
peculiar little ceramic turtle, a preposterous-looking
thing with an irregular shell,
a grotesque head, and painted in a brilliant
emerald green. I recognized it immediately
as a peace offering of sorts. Several days
before, in a fit of pique, she had deposited
my pet turtle in the toilet and pressed the
lever.
Around the ceramic beasty was wrapped
a note, upon which was written, "Merry
Christmas. I am truly sorry I flushed
Harley down the John. I really didn't think
he'd go all the way down."
Since that day I have never been
depressed around Christmas time. Some
times, when I'm in bed on Christmas Eve,
I even imagine I hear the faint tinkling of
bells, the muffled hoofbeats of reindeer
upon the roof and occasionally even a little
"ho ho ho."
If ever again anyone tells me there is no
Santa Claus I may bop him. He'll learn like
I did that you pay a high price when you
try to shatter someone's dreams.
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Going home
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I Hairstyles for men and women.
art. jffttun. 4 .Vnuifft. .mt r?.. Ml - fiS
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Hang Ten knit shirts reg. $18.50 now 12.00
Any shirt and tie J17.00
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20,00 $15.00
fill flannel shirts 20 off
fill dress slacks 20 - 50 off
fill sweaters 25 off
Leather & Suede 20 - 30 off
Entire stock of suits on sale!
3 Piece Suits only 0105
4 Piece Suits only 0125
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