Santa is a Murderer

Unlike most children, I was probably the only kid in the world who wasn't at all disappointed to find out that Santa did not exist. In fact, if anything, I was a little relieved.

I never truly understood how, on one hand, our parents could ingrain the fear of God into us for talking to strangers, and yet, on the other, they'd force us to sit on some old man's lap while he promised us toys in exchange for telling him if we'd been good little boys or girls. Hmmm? Just how extensive is the background check on someone applying for the position of Mall-Santa? I think this warrants serious consideration because, let's face it, "Mall-Santa" would be a pedophile's dream job.

It wasn't my aversion to the obligatory Santa-photo that made me despise him. My deep-seated hatred for this old man developed at the age of five, when I learned a very unfortunate lesson: that which Santa giveth, he can easily taketh away. 

Terrace, B.C. 

I became privy to this lesson while my family and I were living in a remote area of northwestern British Columbia. Our modest house was enveloped by thick forest and was bordered by mountainous terrain. We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and had it not been for Rudolph's shiny, luminous nose, I doubt Santa would have ever stood a chance in hell of finding us. This was, after all, long before Google Maps and GPS even existed. 

In the week preceding Christmas, my parents surprised my siblings and me with the best gift ever imaginable: a horse.  Of course, it was understood that this horse was a gift from Santa, even though it came one week early. 

This is how I remember her...

In keeping with the festive spirit, we named this majestic beauty "Holly." She was white with grey spots and was enormous compared to the four little children who danced excitedly around her shiny, black hooves. 

This is probably a more accurate
 representation of what she looked like.

Looking back, I am willing to bet that my parents purchased Holly on a whim. You didn't have to be a financial adviser to see that Holly wasn't their wisest investment. First of all, our property, though remote and rustic, was not conducive to raising anything larger than chickens and rabbits. And secondly, aside from a chicken coop, we had nothing capable of providing safe haven for Holly. Yep, I can pretty much guarantee that Holly was a few gallops away from the glue factory, and had it not been for my parents and the modest fee they paid for her, we would have probably made her acquaintance on an arts and crafts table instead of meeting her for the first time in our front yard.  

My dad, whose vocation was to construct things, set out to build Holly a stable. What started off as a "small project" for my father, the construction worker of yore, ended up taking a whole week of back-breaking labor. As fate should have it, Holly's stable was finally completed on Christmas Eve. 

Fat fucking sack of murder!!

We all watched with eager anticipation as Dad lead Holly into her own little home for the first time. Had it not been for our excitement about Santa's visit that night, we would have all slept more peacefully knowing that Holly was safe and sound in her stable, especially since large snowflakes were beginning to fall from the ominous winter sky...

and these large snowflakes continued to fall while my parents wrestled us into bed... 

they fell while my parents hurried to wrap the last of the gifts...

and they fell...

and fell...

and fell...

..until we all awoke on Christmas morn to what looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Outside our window was a pristine winter wonderland. Everything was buried under a thick blanket of snow, and nothing could be identified if you hadn't made a mental note of where it stood the night before.

Needless to say—visually—it was the picture-perfect Christmas morning. In reality, however, it was far from perfect. In fact, it would soon unravel to be the worst Christmas ever experienced by a child living in a developed nation. 

While we were busy unwrapping our gifts, Dad went out to check on Holly. Shortly after, he returned and summoned my mother into the kitchen. A great deal of time had passed before they both came out to the living room, each of them sporting a somber look.

"Ahem," my dad cleared his throat in a manner that suggested he was about to have a breakdown. 

"Kids, we have something we need to tell you," said he, the man who went on to build tall skyscrapers for a living. 

This announcement didn't have enough punch to distract us from our gifts. 

"Ummm, kids...it appears as though Holly has gone to Heaven." All eight eyeballs were now fixed firmly upon him.

This evoked a battery of questions from four very confused children...

"Why? Didn't she like living with us?"...."Is she coming back?"...."Where's Heaven? Can we go see her?"..."Didn't she like her stable?"

And then came the one question that I am sure they were hoping to avoid...

"What happened? How did she die?" Of course, this question came from my older sister, Andrea, who actually understood that in order to get into Heaven, you first must die.  

In unison the rest of us asked, "She's dead???? How did she die???"  Again, the question they were trying so desperately to avoid. 

"Well," answered my father, hoping that my mom would chime in to answer; she did not. "Unfortunately, kids, the snow storm made it very difficult for Santa to land his sleigh."  

We all listened attentively, our eyes welling up with tears. 

"Santa misjudged his landing, and instead of landing on the house, he accidently landed on Holly's stable. The stable could not handle the weight of Santa and his reindeer, and it collapsed, killing Holly." And with that, the flood gates opened with a vengeance. 

This tragic event pretty much ruined the rest of the day. We'd each have moments— between consoling one another—when we'd play with our new toys, but it was difficult to appreciate a gift that was given to you by the man who had just flattened your horse. 

Thankfully, I only had a few more years of believing in Santa. But with the knowledge that he did not exist, so came the knowledge that my parents had lied about the details of Holly's death.

Dad helped build the Calgary Tower

For years I had to deal with the fact that our horse's stable—the one which my father had so carefully crafted—had really collapsed under the weight of the snow. This may not seem like a big deal, but later in life, when we would drive around Calgary, and my father would proudly point out all the high-rises he had played a huge part in building, I had no other choice but to pray that these buildings were built on sounder foundations than the one on which he had built Holly's stable. 

It has taken me a long time, but I have since forgiven my parents. As for Santa? That murdering dirt-bag is dead to me. 

Snow people make great friends. They melt.

Thanksgiving Dinner

I wrote this last year when I was home for Canadian Thanksgiving. People here in the States are always baffled when they hear Canada has a Thanksgiving. They wonder what it is we are thankful for, so I tell them we're just grateful we didn't become the 51st state. Of course, they know I'm kidding because I am proud to live here, and I'm thankful for all the awesome Americans I have in my life. You know who you are;)

For the first time, I have cooked the entire turkey dinner by myself, except for the brussel sprouts, which Mom prepared. After a long day in the kitchen— a room in which, up until today, I've spent very little time— I join my family at the dinner table.  Before they can enjoy the fruits of my labor, Terry, my stepfather, says grace. He is interrupted by my brother, Cam, who can't contain his laughter. Apparently, the spread of assorted dishes has my brother busting a gut.

We begin our binge, or what I hope will be a binge, when, after only two bites, Mom gets up from the table to retreat to the bedroom, where she remains in a supine position with a cold, wet towel draped across her forehead. She swears it is the cancer and not my cooking that has brought on this acute bout of nausea. 

Cam, still laughing, sits next to his girlfriend, Jen, who is a really slow eater; although, I don't remember her ever eating this slowly. 

Terry is masticating quietly. It's as if he is concentrating on digesting his food so that it won't make a reappearance later on tonight. Cam still looks like he is constipated; the muscles in his face are stiff and his complexion a crimson red. He is trying desperately to contain his amusement but keeps having spurts where spit and snot fly out of his mouth and nose from his inability to suppress his cackle a second longer.

Terry stands up abruptly and declares, "Enough! You are being very rude! Can't you appreciate the amount of time that went in to this meal?" He leaves and takes his plate to the kitchen. I thank him for sticking up for me, and I tell him I am not offended by how rude everyone else is being. At this point, Aimee leans over to whisper that she thinks it was a strategic move on his part. Unfortunately, I realize it's probably true; Terry had only eaten half of what was on his plate, and I can hear him clearing the rest of what's left into to the trash.  

Everyone seems to feel a little guilty right now.  I can tell because, in an effort to make me feel better, each one of them has piped up to tell me how great the brussel sprouts taste.