The "Tinkling" of Bells

            Last night we took the kids to my parents’ house to make some Christmas goodies, namely peanut butter cups.  At some point in the night’s conversation my Dad asked me what I remembered about Christmases when I was young, so I guess I’ll spill one of the ones I had saved for later now…just because it came up last night.

            When I was nine years old, we had just moved to Japan at the beginning of December.  We moved into a small twin home where the walls were so thin that when the neighbors tromped down the stairs you thought they were coming to see you.  And as the military movers go, we didn’t receive our whole baggage (all our household crap) until Christmas Eve.  In a flurry of elf-like (non-Herbie) activity, we unpacked the decorations and threw them around the place until it really seemed like Christmas.  And coming from Vegas, it was okay that there wasn’t any snow (yet).

            After Mom read Luke 2, we placed our stockings, and Dad helped us situate Santa’s snack, we three boys clambered up the stairs past the kerosene heater into our beds.

            Not too long after I had drifted off my bladder reminded me that I hadn’t emptied before hitting the sack, so it promptly kicked me out of bed.  I suppose I must point out that this cardboard shack only had one bathroom, which, of course, was located at the foot of the stairs.  Hearing noises downstairs, I figured it was safe to relieve myself.  Mom and Dad usually watched TV before bed.

            Dad met me halfway down, scooped me up, tossed my blue-jammied self over his shoulder and carried me back to my bed.   He plopped me down, deaf to my protests.  Seriously, I had to go!  Couldn’t he see my pee pee dancing?  No.  He told me I could come down and go after I had counted to a million and two.

            Dang it.

            My senses heightened, I heard scissors, tape dispensers, and wrapping paper.  Nothing was spoiled, though.  I had already seen my G.I.Joe vehicles sitting in plastic AAFES bags on the floor of Mom and Dad’s bedroom days earlier—in plain sight, even—not wrapped or anything.  For some reason, the number 38,000 sticks in my head whenever I think back to this moment.  That and fuzzy golden garlands.  Apparently Santa made his stop after I passed out.  Good thing my bladder lasted longer than my eyelids.  The only tinkling had been the bells on Santa's sleigh.