BUSTED at Christmas

A couple true holiday stories from many years ago . . .

Our two boys learned the art of sibling rivalry very young. They fought often even as pre-kindergartners. Though they could be best of buddies, they just as often were the worst of enemies. Once just before Christmas they were at eachother’s throats again, so I took Greg to the grocery store with me, leaving younger brother Scott with his mother. Maybe a little hiatus from eachother would cool them off.

As Greg and I rounded the corner into another aisle, who should we find sitting in a makeshift yuletide display but Santa Claus himself. When he spotted Greg, the jolly old elf waved him over to sit on his lap. Greg did. Santa asked him the usual questions: age, wish list, had he been a good boy this year. Then he asked Greg if he had any brothers. Greg replied that he had a younger brother.

“And how do you get along with your brother?” Santa asked.

BUSTED!!! By Santa himself. Greg didn’t answer. His face sank, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. Lucky for Greg, if he would have burst into tears, it might not have set too well with Santa’s employer there at the store. So Mr. Claus quickly said something to the effect that he was sure Greg tried to get along with his brother and cheered Greg up with a candy cane.

I asked Greg recently if he remembered any of that. He said he didn’t, which isn’t surprising since it happened about 20 years ago. That’s too bad. Classic moment.

For my second little anecdote, we have to go back about 40 years or more when I was the eldest and thus leader of three boys and one girl in our family. As Christmas approached, my fear was that my younger siblings would wake up before I would, sneak by my bed which was near the upstairs landing and head downstairs to open presents whilst I slept.

So late Christmas Eve I rigged up a snare with a broom, string, and some pots and pans. I created a trip wire so that anybody trying to walk past me would set off a noisy alarm. Then I went to sleep.

In the middle of the night came a mighty racket. Pow, Clank, Rattle! BUSTED!!! But it wasn’t my brothers or sister. It was our toy Pomeranian who was ensnared, and then panicked, dragging the string with the pots and pans along the upstairs floor. Oh, well. Successful test, I guess.

Next morning I asked my mother if she heard the racket upstairs. “Yes,” she said in a scolding tone. She wasn’t too appreciative of my plan, brilliant though it was. Heck, and I always thought that having a son like me made life more interesting anyway.