The holiday season is poised to wrap us in its musty embrace. I've decided not to go home this year, and will instead spend a month repairing senior citizens' porches in British Columbia. Recent holiday celebrations have proven disastrous for the Holwerks, and there is no denying I am to blame.
It all began two days before Christmas of 2001, when I insisted on fir over spruce. We set the tree up in the living room, giving it a day to fill out before we decorated. The needles turned out to hold a large number of Douglas-fir Tussock moth larvae, which look like inch-long hairy caterpillars. Confused, angered or perhaps aroused by the room's warmth, they dropped onto the snowflake-patterned tablecloth we'd spread beneath the tree. No one noticed except our miniature poodle, Lili, who, being a dog, decided to eat them.
Though not poisonous, Tussock moth larvae's bristly hairs are quite sharp. I don't know how many larvae Lili ate, but their prickly coats lacerated her stomach lining. On Christmas Eve she threw up a bloody mix of dog food and moth larvae on our cream-colored velvet couch. We rushed her to the veterinary hospital, and while some might regard her full recovery as a Christmas miracle, my parents were unable to see past the hefty vet bill and subsequent moth infestation.
The next year we decided to spend the holidays with relatives. We stayed with my aunt and brought along our presents to open Christmas morning. Her son Dale was six and still a Santa-believer.
Dale's excitement peaked on Christmas Eve. He was too wound up to eat dinner, and left the table four times to investigate the chimney, checking, he said, \for things in Santa's way."" I'd forgotten what the anticipation was like at that age. Any present in the world was possible, hand-delivered by the jolly fat man himself. The gift I'd gotten him wasn't going to matter. Who cared if the Bozo the Clown Bop Bag popped right back up? It wasn't from Santa.
I'd purchased it on sale, however, and since there was no way to get my money back, I was determined to get its worth. I needed to get to Dale before Santa did. I set my watch alarm for 4:30 a.m., figuring even the greediest of kids wouldn't get up that early.
When my alarm went off, I struggled out of bed and crept down the hall, inflated Bozo Bob Bag in hand. Dale's door was open, and I could see in the glow cast by his race-car night light that he was still asleep. I crawled to his bedside, setting the Bozo Bag even with his head. I rocked the clown from left to right, softly calling Dale's name.
I try to keep up with my extended family. I really do. But to expect me to know each of my cousins' deepest fears is ridiculous. Dale's, apparently, was clowns. Waking up to the unmoving smile of a clown who knew his name sent him into a panic, one somehow jumbled with his Christmas worries. He rolled out of bed and scooted toward his closet, screaming, ""I wasn't naughty! I wasn't naughty! I'm sorry, Santa! Please don't kill me!""
I stood and tried to comfort him. It didn't do any good and he spent the day huddled on the couch with his mom, unwilling to speak to anyone or open his presents. I think he was being a little overdramatic, but each of us deals with the holiday stress in our own way.
chunkkicke@yahoo.com and will be returning next semester.
