Delightful Scars of Christmas Past

Scarred for Life!

It will probably seem petty to many people, that I was scarred for life because of mistakes Santa made at my childhood Christmas tree. Being a middle child, I was already struggling to find my own identity, to identify what I might excel at, so as to compete in my own way with my boisterous brothers. They were robust, and smart and athletic, which left me arts and humanities, which I began to ponder seriously. I told Santa I wanted a carpenter set... I was about nine and thinking that my creativity could be put to use in some positive way besides bloody battle cartoons. Wasn't Joseph, Jesus's father a carpenter, and wasn't Jesus said to be the same?

Christmas morning at our house was an explosion of laughter and wrapping paper, as three boys dug into their long-awaited prizes. But the tree had some surprises. It was as if a bad elf, or a drunk had placed the gifts left by old Santa. I kept unwrapping things made out to me, but which were meant for Reynolds, my little brother. Socks, underwear, nothing of consequence, and my mom seemed to better understand what Santa intended, and snatched them up as fast as I unveiled them, trading out with the intended recipient and handing me yet another thing to unwrap... and then the extent of Santa's chain of errors became more clear, as my six year-old brother came up out of the layers of shiny paper with EXACTLY what I had wanted for Christmas: a real deal carpenter set. 

A cute little hammer, a saw with real teeth, even a little coping saw, and some other carpenter stuff little boys would not understand.

Reynolds was thrilled, that Santa had given him something valued by others. He was more thrilled, suddenly having something he knew that I would like to have. I eventually found a cheesy plastic carpenter set on my side of the tree. Santa understood that Reynolds would be jealous of the real carpenter set, so he left him a little baby one. I looked at it as if Santa had just kicked me in the gut. My mom looked mortified, and looked at my dad... who said something flippant like “Santa must have made a mistake!”

“You'll never get that from him...” My mother said dryly. She could not help but chuckle, as Reynolds began to show everyone his new hammer, gleefully trying it out on the furniture.

“Uh... boys, Santa's helpers have made a mistake...” My father tried to interject. But as he tried to wrestle the hammer away from Reynolds, it was obvious that the little guy was already a member of the carpenter's Union, and fighting for his life. No way was he giving up the carpenter set, now the tools of his profession. So, of course, as parents always do, they give in to the wants of the youngest, even when Santa has made a stupid, irresponsible mistake. And then they did the other thing parents always do, they tried to extract a compromise with the little peckerwood. “Now Rey Rey, you'll be glad to share your carpenter set with Russie, won't you?”

My dad was a big tough guy, and could be very intimidating, but Reynolds was not phased. He clutched the hammer, and looked around for moral support. When he saw none, he did what all indulged little punks do, he puffed up and turned red, and looked like he was about to explode. Mom swiftly took him and the hammer away to soften the moment, and dad began laugh. That was easy for him, it wasn't his hammer.

Of course Reynolds never made anything with that damned carpenter set, he just proudly owned it. The little saw didn't really work very good. Then he grew up to be a journalist, which had nothing to do with carpentry. And I learned that someone as powerful as Santa could make grievous errors, which could not be undone.

But I was a forgiving soul. And I got even soon enough, when one day we were pretending to be Rebs fighting Yankees, and he tried to sneak up from behind and I twirled around and nailed him right between the eyes with the steel barrel of my quite real looking Confederate musket. Made a perfect circle on his forehead. Blood running down his face just like that reb in Shenandoah...It was really cool. You can still see that scar if you look close. That fixed his little carpenter butt!

I changed my life goals that year and the next Christmas, Reynolds heard me tell Santa that I wanted a microscope. I wanted to look at things up close, to study their textures and cell structure. I was now ten and curious about nature. Ok, so maybe we were going to torment some ants along the way...

The big day came, and we shot out of bed and flew to the tree like wasps on the warpath. We tore into mounds of toy army gear and guns and plastic army men, and then... Reynolds unwrapped his brand... new... microscope. Complete with slides and minerals and science experiments.

I could not believe it.   I... COULD NOT BELIEVE IT!

Really? Two years in a row? He was just seven freaking years old! How could Santa make that BIG of a mistake? It was if the devil elf was taunting me.

Sensing a repeat from last year, Reynolds clutched the microscope as if it were a long lost friend. Meanwhile I unwrapped the Erector Set Santa had left for him. It was a fussy affair, with millions of little metal strips and nuts and screws, even an adult could not figure out. Reynolds would not consider a trade even if he was threatened, or begged, or reasoned with.

“I want it!” was all he said, so happy to be such an obvious favorite of Santa's, to get big-boy stuff that even his older brother wanted. It was as if life was extraordinarily fair... to him. And it was great to find out that all of those threats about being a good little boy, if he wanted Santa to bring him great stuff, were just parental ignorance.

Reynolds was always relentlessly competitive anyway. He always wanted whatever I had, to do whatever I was doing. That competition continues in many ways, until this day. If I got an old truck... he bought three. And then there were the arrowhead wars, wrought iron wars, stoneware, tintypes... we are both pathetic and just a tiny bit covetous.

So anyway I gave up on a microscope and finding a cure for cancer. And by now I knew that Santa was over the hill, horribly incompetent, and no more efficient than a thirty-something couple in a rush, who had hit the egg-nog a little toooooo often. Every year! And scarred for life, I gave up on being like Jesus and resorted to hours entertaining myself with pencil and paper. Lots of paper. Lots and lots of paper.

It was cheap, and Reynolds had no use for that. I made all kinds of paper airplanes, and drawings of Texas history, and even dozens of little elves to decorate the house for Christmas. I was probably hoping they would hang around and lend Santa guidance the next year.

Merry Christmas Brothers!

None of us would change a thing.