Little Christmas Blessings

      

      

      Well, here it is December 15^th, 2015.  This morning I chose some beautiful Christmas music, and set in the Panamanian morning sun drinking my coffee.  Though I tried not too, I couldn’t help but reflect on Christmas past.  I thought of the wondrous years of believing in Santa Claus.  I really can’t remember much before I was four years old, and I was seven years old when the brutal truth hit me like an empty beer can that Santa Claus was a myth, so that gives me three years of memories to work with.

      

I discovered the truth about Santa on Christmas morning, 1964.  I was seven years old.  I remember coming down the stairs and finding that Santa had indeed come during the night.  There under the tree were the presents that I may or may not have asked him for.  But the real evidence that the old elf had found me once again was the cookie crumbs left on the plate next to the half empty bottle of…beer?!  What the…?

       I stood in disbelief looking back and forth between the plate of cookies and the bottle of ‘Oly’.  My little mind tried to

convince myself that Santa must have liked the same brand of beer my mom and dad drank.  Then I noticed that the cookie was only broken into three pieces.  There were no bites taken by Santa. 

       I took a deep breath and padded into my parent’s room.  My mother was awake and tying her robe.  She smiled and motioned that we should be quiet and leave my father sleeping and she guided me out to the living room.  After asking if I had received what I had asked for, I blurted out,

       “Mommy, is Santa Claus real?”

       I remember there was something very tender in her eyes as she sat on the footstool, took me gently by the shoulders and looked me in the face.

       “Do you think he’s real?” she asked tenderly.

       I answered with a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye – a single word, “No.”

        

      And there it was.  The moment that little Denny became Dennis.  I sometimes weep for that little boy.  But we all must grow, that is a fact of life. 

     Unless you are a midget… I mean, little person.  Either way you get to play baby Jesus in the school play for several years running.  It’s probably a great way to see some cleavage.  Like when the Jesus’ mom, Mary bends over the crib.  Boom! Virgin boob.  That’s cool.

I’m not saying everything is fun and games when you’re a midg…little person.  I bet you get a lot of dumb looking clothes for Christmas.  You never see them wearing Nikes or Pumas, poor things.  Still, they can sit on Santa’s lap pretty much their whole tiny lives.  Of course asking Santa for a cigar humidor, or miniature riding lawnmower probably raises a few eyebrows in their later years.

       I played Santa Claus for a chain of pharmacies one year.  Hi-School Pharmacies.  There is so much irony here that it kind of blows my mind.  You can’t make this stuff up.

       My point is this;

       Whether you walk naked into a darkened cave, sing words from the Torah, or beat up your Dad one drunken Christmas Eve, we all must endure our own rites of passage which take us from childhood into adulthood.  And it is only fitting that we prepare our own children for the moment when they tug on our pant leg, and through innocent eyes ask,

       “How come that man is smaller than me?”

       And you can answer,

       “Don’t stare, you idiot!  He’s a midget, he can’t help it.  Poor thing.  Just be glad you’re normal!  Oh, wait… is he one of the elves?  Eww, don’t let him touch you, and don’t ask Santa for that computer game ‘cause he won’t bring it.”

The End

I’d like to give special thanks to the Lollypop Guild, The Gladys and Herve Villechaize Foundation, Conrad Bain, and Nike, for their continued support.

No midge… “little people” were physically harmed during the writing of this blog. 

I’m only kidding.  I got frustrated and kicked my housekeeper.  Merry Christmas.  Oh, and Merry Christmas!

DP