PTSD (Post-traumatic Santa Disorder)

 

It seemed to me that the more tired my Mom was, the earlier I was tucked into bed. When winter evenings darkened early, I didn't really mind the early bedtime.  On cold Minnesota nights, settling in to sleep first required warming the cold mattress and bedding up to a comfortable nesting temperature. After quickly donning pajamas in the chilly bedroom, I'd hop under the layers of thick quilts, quickly pull them over my head and tuck them around me. Then the wiggling would commence. I'd wiggle my flanneled self against the mattress to speed it's warming. Sometimes I would create enough friction and static to produce tiny blue sparks in the dark undercover. By the time I couldn't bear to breathe another stale breath under the covers, the bed would be warmed to my satisfaction. I'd then slip my head up just far enough on the pillow for my nose to draw the fresh chilled air.  My preheating ritual worked pretty well.  It stayed comfortably toasty under the heavy, wool-batted quilts.

 

Although cold wafted through the aged upstairs windows, I liked to have my bed beside one. Condensation caused a frosted layer of ice to build up on the glass inside the window frames. I have pleasant memories of how I'd lay in my bed and etch words on the frosty glass. The colder it was outside, the larger my ice tablet. 

 
My frosty Etch - a - Sketch was even more enjoyable after the Christmas lights were strung. This allowed for the window art to be back lit by the  1950's Clemco's primary colors. Some nights the window portrait held a thinly frosted sparkling layer of feathery swirls. On other nights the frost clung thickly creating a mossy white velour. Regardless of what the frost fairies painted, those primary colors glowed beautifully through nature's artistry. Some years you'd get a blue bulb outside your window. I loved the blue bulbs for the soothing hue they created. A green bulb was nice, as was yellow. If the lights were strung
j u s t  r i g h t, you'd get two colorful bulbs outside your window. That was the best!

Guilty of Terrorizing Small Children

As much as I looked forward to my lighted bedtime fun, there was one thing that caused major angst for me as a child.  When it came time for Dad to put up the Christmas lights, I would pray that a red bulb wouldn't end up outside my window. Honestly, a red bulb made me so anxious that I'd have to pull the thick quilts up over my eyes to get to sleep. As a small child I was afflicted with what I now call,  PTSD, or Post-Traumatic Santa Disorder. 

I attribute my childhood aversion to the color red as a result of being too young the first time I was sat upon the lap of a red clad, loud, smooshy bellied man wearing a ghastly white and pink stinky rubber Santa mask.  I can't recall any time in my childhood when I wasn't terrified of Santa.

There aren't enough adjectives to relay how frightening this character was in my juvenile mind. I remember looking up into Santa's awful face, that hideous mask sucking up into his nostrils when he inhaled. The molded and wrinkly rubber lips bubbling with each exhalation. 

Family Christmas 1964

 There's a few family pictures that captured this particular childhood anxiety. This photo was taken at a family Christmas party.   

I'm the baby with the red-rimmed eyes and pouting lips. 
Chances are that was the very night I experienced my first close encounter of the Santa-kind.
  It appears that my mother is trying to comfort me.  Dad must have been praying that the night would end quickly. 

From the looks of it, brother Tat tied his own tie. Brother Doodee and sister Kat appear to be experiencing holiday ecstasy. Lucky them.

Dig all that tinsel on the Christmas tree in the background.
It used to freak me out when static would make the wiggly tinsel jump off the tree and 
cling onto my nylon girlie tights.  
God knows that made me cry too.  My poor mother....

The snapshot below was taken at a 4-H Christmas party held at the old school house just down the road from the farm. I can still remember somebody giving the reluctant me a hearty shove toward Santa who eagerly scooped me up onto his lap. Stiffening with resistance, I quickly slid my feet to the floor, which left me leaning against him like a board. Whoever played Santa that year has no idea how close my 7-year-old bladder came to leaving him with a wet and warm memory. 

"All I want for Christmas is to get the HELL off your lap."

I think I was about 9 years old before I finally separated my Santa fears from reality. It happened one afternoon when I was bored and snooping around upstairs. Shoved deep in the back of the hallway closet I discovered an unfamiliar garment bag.  As I unzipped it, my heart began to race and anxiety grabbed my throat as a white-trimmed woolly red suit was revealed. I swallowed hard to stifle a shriek. In the bottom lay a lifeless, deflated mask with a grotesquely shaped nose and lips protruding between two cheaply rouged cheeks. 

In that moment it all came crashing together in my psyche. Santa was NOT real ! What a huge relief ! Bravely touching the stiff red fabric, I suddenly recognized the familiar garb.  It was a  the same "Santa" costume that was used to terrorize me annually at both the 4-H club and family Christmas parties. 

Good Lord in Heaven. My parents owned that awful getup? As an adult, I have no doubt it was purchased with the best of parental intentions to create a magical childhood experience. But on that day of discovery I was mortified to realize that for 363 days out of the year the macabre red shroud had been stored just a few feet away from my bedroom. That was just plum old sick and wrong.

Obviously many years have now passed. I'm nearly 50 years old. I have felt a tad bit embarrassed to publicly share such silly, but honest childhood recollections here. Nevertheless, I've received unexpected dividends from the responses of blog readers who have helped me realize that my humbly scribed stories have opened doors to to their own treasured memories. Thank you for the encouragement.

So let me bravely tell.....I still find wiggling about in a cold bed until it's warm a comforting routine.  Although now the cold leaves my aged fingers aching, I'm still inclined to stop and trace designs on frosty window panes. Christmas lights, even the red ones, still make me feel like a happy child.

As for the status of the old family Santa suit, I want to tell you that it mercifully "disappeared" around 1995.  The newest family Santa costume is made from lovely red and white velour fabric and did not come with a freakish mask.  

Nevertheless, even after all these years, I still give Santa a wide berth, even when I'm at the mall during Christmas.  

Heart-warming and humbling are the remnants of childhood.

Motley Crew 1967

The Five Minute Warning

A few years ago after our Dad had passed, my mother received this picture in the mail from one of his long-time friends. In my top 10 of favorite family pictures this priceless snapshot is my number one. Sure there are many other family photos - church portraits, photos taken during special meals and holidays. But they all show us in our best clothes and on our best behavior.  This is the only photograph I am aware of that captures all seven of us and what we looked like on any regular old day on the farm.

According to Mom, the person behind the camera was an old army buddy my Dad had served with during the Korean conflict. Having arrived for an unexpected visit from another state, he surprised my parents by calling from town that afternoon to relay he would soon be at the farm. And that he was.....arriving about 5 minutes later. Thus I've dubbed this picture, "the five minute warning."

I had much fun scrutinizing the details of this picture by magnifying it on my computer. There are little memorable treasures all over the photograph. For example, I don't remember my Dad having hair on the top of his head, let alone dark hair. The picture tells otherwise. And was that a two day beard? That I don't ever remember seeing that either. Evidently there was just enough time for Dad wash up and throw on a clean shirt.  It had to be a different shirt than he had on prior to the visit. The first reason was because it was clean and second, all Dad ever wore for farm work was a standard navy blue or gray twill work shirt and matching pants. I have no doubt his sleeves were carelessly rolled up because he'd quickly scrubbed up to his elbows with the Lava soap.  That was something he always did when he came in the house.

I wish I knew what my mother was saying, although I can guess from the shape of her mouth that she was telling one of us to shape up. It's likely her message was for me, Missy McGrumpy, scowling at the camera with a fistful of baby carrots in hand.  From the size of the thin yellow carrots I'm guessing the picture was taken in late June or early July. It's no wonder I looked grumpy that day. I was very shy around strangers, the late afternoon sun was right in my eyes and I had likely been dragged out of my favorite playground, the garden. 

Posed all clean and happy, sister Kat stood angelically next to me with my garden grunge and sourpuss face. I see eldest brother DeeDee, standing like a super hero with hands on his hips, had also donned a clean shirt just like Dad. There is no doubt Tat came from the shop, shirt smeared with grease. His perpetually happy smile is captured just as I remember it. Tat always had a look like he had the joy-joy-joy-joy down in his heart. Coordinated striped shirt and socks, sideways belt and jutted hip fit brother DooDee's personality perfectly. As a child, he was the closest genetic match to me in the grumpy department. 

I'd like to thank the gentleman who thoughtfully sent us this treasure after Dad passed away.  I'm grateful he captured us in our humble state that summer day over forty years ago. And, I'm deeply grateful for the gift of memory restored and the loving family bonds that neither decades nor death can separate.