Living at Grandpa’s house was a wonderful experience for my brother, sister and myself. Our Grandma had died recently, leaving Grandpa alone in his big house.  So when the war ended, my Dad, Mom, and the three of us kids moved back from the East Coast,  had nowhere to live, so we moved in with Grandpa.

My mother was the oldest of Grandpa’s six children and took over the operation of the household. It was Christmas, 1945, the war had ended and our uncles Roy, Norman and Jack we’re home on leave from the Army and Navy. Christmas Eve came and they were dressed in their impressive dress uniforms, headed out for an evening on the town, borrowing their brother Bob’s  car. We kids were waiting for Santa to appear, and our Mom took us upstairs, combed our hair and instructed us how to shake hands with Santa when he came to the door. Suddenly we heard stamping and shouting on the roof. Was it Santa and his reindeer?  After much scrambling and noise outside, the doorbell rang and bells jingled, and the loud roar of Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas!” Breathlessly we ran down the stairs, opened the front door, and there he was.  In the door he came (from a later perspective looking a lot like my uncle Bob with a huge, hairy, bedraggled fur coat draped over his shoulders and a strange mass of white stuff on his face). I was in a sweat, trying to remember which hand was my right one, preparing to shake hands. My brother hid behind my Dad, my little sister was screaming at the top of her lungs,  and I fearfully held out my left hand.

Well, that was the Christmas Eve drama. Uncles Roy, Norman and Jack returned in the early hours of the morning, without Uncle Bob’s car. I never heard that story. But there was still Christmas Day.

The women were in the kitchen cooking up a storm, Grandpa, Dad and the uncles were out looking for Bob’s car, and we three kids were opening presents. Santa had left a cowboy hat, guns, holster and boots with spurs for my brother, a teddy bear for my little sister, a Sparkle Plenty doll for me, a life-sized blow-up Santa leaning by the Christmas tree, plus new underwear and pajamas for each of us.

Overwhelmed by all the excitement, my  brother, in cowboy hat, boots, spurs,  guns and holster, gravitated toward the blow-up Santa, challenged him to a duel and tackled him. Suddenly, Santa exploded with a huge B A N G !My brother, horrified, rolled off Santa who was now flat as a pancake, my little sister wailed, “Oh, no, he shot Santa” (those prickly spurs!), and the women came running to see what was happening.

The men finally returned having found Uncle Bob’s car impounded, glad to have missed all the excitement, and passed around the Mogen David wine (or maybe something stronger).

In my mind’s eye I see those uniformed uncles standing straight and tall in Grandpa’s living room, the silver starred pillows on the sofa, the Christmas tree in the corner, the aunts gossiping in the dining room. The warmth of family overwhelms me still. But I don’t think my brother and sister ever totally recovered from that 1944 Christmas.

Judy Sarles recently moved to the Chippewa Valley to be near family. She writes for her own amazement.

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