Part of being an older brother is learn and refine the art of trouble maker for one’s siblings. The true artist is capable of slipping in and slipping out completely unnoticed, leaving distraught mayhem in the wake, while having no direct cause of action for punishment or retribution. For the holiday season, I’ll share with you one of my pride’n’joys — the time I got Santa Clause to provoke a fight between my two sisters.
Roll back the clock to the early 80’s. It was a time when companies seemed to care about their employees, and lavish Christmas parties were held for employee and family. Such was the case with MITRE in McLean.
For those of you who don’t know what MITRE is, the answer lies within a deconstruction of their name. MITre, which is short for MIT Research and Engineering. Now present-day MITRE denies this, but I’ve seen first hand little green stickers with this text on it in their computer labs. They’re usually suck to the back side of the really old steel filing cabinets. Anyhow, it’s only paragraph three, and I’m on a digression.
MITRE had great Christmas parties. It wasn’t that there was unlimited food, small gifts, prizes, and such. But rather that employee’s kids, usually in their teens, could volunteer to be Santa’s elves. This was the greatest treat of all, seeing some well built 16-18 year old, long haired girl with big dark eyes, wearing seamed stockings and an elf costume that was one size too small. At least, that was the treat for me going.
My sisters, of course, went to go see Santa and lavish their Christmas wishes upon him. So, when the announcement came that Santa (and his elves!) would be ready for photographs, I jumped right into line.
My parents were there, in line, trying to hold my sisters from cutting. I was first in line because I was oldest, and primarily because I had been paying attention. I made sure to indicate just how lucky and fortunate it was that I had managed the spot I did before all the toys ran out. For had I been second, or even third, in line, there was that possibility that Santa might earmark the last goodie I wanted for someone else.
Terrorized by this prospect, my sisters burst into cries of unfairness, and how I always got to go first. They pleaded with my father who looked at me and said, “Walt, let your sisters go first… they’re younger.”
This wasn’t good at all. And I started to protest. My mouth started to open, but I didn’t get any words out. This requeuing would instantly resolve all the discontent I had just worked on brewing.
Now you have to understand, I wasn’t doing it to be mean. Absolutely not. My mind just works a lot faster than I can usually get things out. Follow the line of logic. Two upset little girls are going to what…? That’s right, attract attention. And who will be coming over to cheer them up? Think holiday. That’s right. The long haired, busty elf-chics. The more commotion, the better.
As I was saying, I was about to protest about being there first when the solution dawned on me. “Go right ahead, you take my place, Merry Christmas.” I said with a big grin and so much drizzled sincerity that it aroused my father’s suspicion.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you gave that up too easily.” I smiled. “No, I *want* them to go first.” My dad didn’t believe me and stood between us.
My sisters leaned around him and stuck out their tongues. I enjoyed every minute of that. I knew what was about to happen.
Up they went, they told Santa everything they wanted, got a candy cane, and came on down singing “we saw Santa first!”
My turn.
I went up, sat on Santa’s knee, posed for the picture, smiled at the elves. “You got a good thing going here Santa.” He smiled and asked, “So what do you want for Christmas?”
Sounding humble and sweet, I said, “The only gift I know *you* can give me, Santa.” Dramatic pause. “Two Candy Canes.”
Santa ho-ho-ho’d and told his elf to “give that good little boy, two candy-canes!” And so she did.
I walked slowly down the ramp, one candy cane in each hand, toward my two sisters who’s array of mocking instantly ceased, filled with horror at what had just happened, and burst into tears. “I guess you were on his Naughty List.”
Parents bewildered as to what had just happened. Elves all around me. Sisters struggling to get back in line, but being denied as they had their turn. Ah, isn’t this what a Merry Christmas is all about?