By Debora
Renstrom Smith
For the
Deseret News, 2003
Perhaps my most memorable Christmas was spent the
year my grandmother passed away. Christmas Eve we were sharing stories and
feeling a little bit sad until my father reminded us of this eventful Christmas
from his childhood.
He started by reminding us that Grandma Ruby was a
tiny woman. In her high heels she could stand under a man's outstretched arm,
but every inch of her was intimidating. She believed in the benefits of
discipline, and she wasn't afraid to discipline any child she felt needed a
little shaping up.
In the small Utah town of Huntsville, the cry,
"Aunt Ruby's coming!" had been known to send participants in a school
yard fist fight scrambling for cover. Often the two foes could be found
cowering together in the same bush clinging to each other in terror. If found,
they would surely have to face Grandma Ruby's wrath.
The Christmas Eve my father was 8 was filled with
great anticipation. Dad was hoping with all his heart that Santa would bring
him a train set, and even Grandma Ruby had confirmed that this was not an
impossible dream this year.
Which is why, as my father climbed the stairs to the
attic bedroom he shared with his older brother, he listened with extra
incentive to my grandmother's warning. As she shut the door, she reminded them
that they were not to come down those stairs and open that door for any reason.
If they did, she would know they were trying to "peek on Santa
Claus."
The punishment for peeking on Santa was too horrible
to be contemplated.
My father and his brother snuggled down in their
bed. Dad started drifting off to sleep with beautiful "visions of his
shiny new train set dancing in his head" when he came to a horrible
realization. He had to go to the bathroom, BAD.
Now this might not seem like such an
earth-shattering problem until you realize that to go to the outhouse he would
have to go down the stairs, open the forbidden door and run the risk of being
accused of trying to "peek on Santa."
Dad knew he had to get to that outhouse or risk
having an accident in his bed, which carried with it a whole other set of
disciplinary actions. He woke his older brother and impressed upon him the real
urgency of his situation. After dreaming up and discarding several ideas they
finally decided the only solution was to bundle up as best they could and climb
out their window onto the roof. From there they could slide down to the eaves
where they would shinny down the drain pipe and no one would ever know they had
been out.
It seemed like a brilliant plan to them, and it
would have worked too, except for one little thing. My father, who had gone out
the window first, felt himself slipping and grabbed for the first thing he
could reach, which happened to be his brother's foot sticking out of the
window. He began sliding out of control down the roof, unceremoniously dragging
his brother over the window sill and with him over the edge of the roof before
landing in a large snowdrift. Neither had dared to make a sound during their
entire terrifying descent for fear of being discovered and accused of trying to
"peek on Santa."
As they sat in the snowdrift looking at one another
in stunned silence, Dad realized he no longer needed to use the bathroom. He
seemed to have taken care of that little problem on the way down from the roof.
After what seemed like an eternity to the two boys,
they managed to climb back up onto the roof and then into their bedroom window.
Half frozen and terrified that somehow Grandma Ruby would find out about their
little escapade, they climbed shivering into their bed and somehow found a way
to go to sleep. The next morning, with great trepidation, they crept down the
stairs and opened the forbidden door fully expecting to face the consequences
of trying to "peek on Santa." Instead, that morning brought one of my
father's most memorable Christmases as he discovered his shiny new train under
the Christmas tree.
As my father finished
speaking, we were all shedding tears — not of sorrow but of laughter as we
shared the joy of Christmas past and present.
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