Like any kid who knew he had been good, I couldn’t sleep. Of course I couldn’t sleep. I would lie in my bed upstairs; my eyes would by closed because that was the rule. And I would listen for the sounds downstairs. My body thrilled.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more awake than when I was pretending to sleep and listening to Christmas downstairs. I was tempted. Of course I was tempted. Tempted to jump out of my warm bed in my skivvies. Tempted to sneak down the stairs. Tempted to pop out around the corner of the stairs and look in. And catch Santa unloading his sack. Catch Santa, perhaps, chasing the cookies we had left out with milk. But I understood this was very bad. This was worse than stealing or lying or saying a bad word. Much worse. You don’t try to catch Santa.

I got up with my older brother way too early. C., my brother, didn’t care much about Christmas or Santa, not as much as I did; but he was excited about new stuff. And he, at least when we were really young, he would get up with me.

We were allowed to go through our stockings. They were furry red with white trim on the top. My older brother’s name was spelled in rainbow colors. My name was in silver. At the bottom of our stockings was always an orange. I got books too – even then I liked to read. I remember the orange because I didn’t want the orange. It’s funny that’s what I remember. Everything in the stocking smelled of oranges.

Mom and Dad were still in bed. We were meant to avoid waking them up too early. And we were up by 5 am. Grandma and grandpa would come every year. But not until 8 or 8:30 am. We were also allowed to open one present. Just one. It was considered bad manners to open the really big presents. But we also avoided opening presents that looked like they might be socks or shirts. That was one of my favorite games. In the secret quiet of Christmas morning with my brother as my cohort and my parents determined to be undisturbed, going through the wrapped booty under the tree and picking just the right present. Choose wrong and all you had was a sweater to be excited about for three hours while waiting for grandma and grandpa. Waiting for my grandparents was my first lesson in postponing gratification.

Mom and dad would eventually get up. Mom would make coffee and smoke a cigarette or two while she rushed to get drinks, little jars of peanuts, some chocolates, Christmas music on 8-track, ready. And even though it was only three hours, it would take forever for my grandparents to come and at least for me, and at least now, they had missed the best part of the day, the anticipation.

SS