One of my
most memorable Christmases happened when I was 7 years old. We were living in “the doctor’s house” (a
cottage on Lake Ontario) at the time.
The house was perfect for a Shirley Temple style Christmas, with a
fireplace, an upstairs so we could sit on the stairs and look through the banisters
to await Santa’s arrival. We had hung
stockings on the fireplace, our simple little skinny socks. There was a piano in the dining room where we
could pretend to play Jingle Bells. All
three of us, Jeanette, John and I sat on the stairs for quite a while until
finally my parents forced us to go to bed.
Next morning
we hurried downstairs and were aghast to discover the socks had been thrown on
the Christmas tree and there were no presents under the tree. Needless to say Jeanette began bawling almost
immediately and only got worse when Dad came down the stairs and told us that
Santa must have got angry that we had forgotten to leave cookies and milk for
him. Oh my but he had to hurry back
upstairs to bring out the packages. In
all the excitement of getting presents I have forgotten what the excuse for
Santa leaving them in my parents’ bedroom would have been.
I look back
and smile at that skinny little girl looking through the banisters.
Twinkle!
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