Today I am reminded of my father and a Christmas story of years and years ago.
My father was not always a patient or tolerant man. On Christmas, though, he would strive to be extra patient with us. The standard rule of Christmas was that we were not allowed to come downstairs, nor to open any gifts, until our Dad was out of bed for the day. Mind you, it was not a tortuous thing – my dad was naturally an early riser and would typically be up by 6:30 on Christmas, which was actually sleeping in for him.
On this particular Christmas, most of my siblings – and in applicable cases, spouses – were at home for the Holiday , and sleeping at out house. Mind you, I say “sleeping” with tongue firmly in cheek, which is why this particular story exists in our family’s repertoire.
So one of the older kids decided it would be a good idea to go out and imbibe some “Christmas cheer.” The problem was that they rolled back to the house, full of said “Christmas cheer,” around 3:00 AM. And of course, being rather giggly and clumsy, they woke my father up and he was forced to arise, like a bear from a cave disturbed during hibernation, to enact retribution and to generally kill the buzz, as it were.
Sleep was elusive for the younger children anyway since it was Christmas morning; we were already sleeping lightly, on pins and needles, waiting eagerly to see what was under the tree. Once we heard our dad’s voice, booming even when he whispered, we were awake and out of bed like soldiers hearing Reveille and ready for action. This would be the downside of the standard rule, of course, and an unexpected twist for my dad: the rule is the rule, and the fact that he was not wakened naturally didn’t matter to us. The rule said once he was up we could attack the tree. And by golly he was up. And not particularly thrilled by it, either.
Now, of course, the “Christmas cheer” would slowly degenerate into “Christmas hangover.” That was not important to my father. He had been woken up in the middle of the night, and his loss of sleep would be matched by those who had disturbed him – willing or not. My dad decreed that since he wasn’t able to sleep, no one else (specifically, the offenders) would be allowed to sleep either. This is where the story REALLY gets interesting.
One of the offenders, thinking that my dad was busy with preparations for Christmas dinner, decided to lay out in my dad’s LaZBoy recliner for a short Winter’s nap. This was not to be allowed; there was to be no unsanctioned sleeping! It was a foolish and ill-considered choice in hindsight. Because there was about to be trouble in Christmas town…
I can’t tell you how my dad knew. I won’t say that the offender wasn’t ratted out to him, as that was something we did to each other when there was amusement bound to ensue. He may have discovered the treachery on his own. It didn’t matter how he found out, the punishment was about to be dished.
Looking around the living room, my father searched for an appropriate means by which to deliver his commentary on his sleeping child’s unfortunate state of unconsciousness. He found his means close at hand. So, picking up a roll of wrapping paper and wielding it like a Samurai Warrior, my father approached his prey – and then, with great vigor and joy, my father delivered a beating that would be sung about for decades to come, proclaiming for all to hear once again that there would be no slumbering while he had to stay awake for the day. No one else attempted to sleep for the rest of the day.
And a Joyful Christmas was had by most…
The End
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