Defending My Character: A Blog of Rebuttal

My character has been defamed, and it's up to me to refame it!

This is the cover of the [absolutely gorgeous] scrapbook that my beautiful, talented sister, Karen, made for me, and for each of my siblings this Christmas.

Our family has been greatly blessed by Karen's talent and generosity, and over the years, we have all amassed a large collection of these treasures. I can't stress enough how important it is that you not think me ungrateful. But still...

On the page dedicated to Christmas 1967, we read, in part:

Unfortunately, this is the year that Kate made sure Mark no longer believed in Santa Claus! She was snooping for presents in the basement and found ALL of our gifts! Of course she had to drag us all down there to see them...The real kicker was that Mark got a bike that year, and Mom and Dad were ready with the camera to get the excitement on Christmas morning...the reaction was not what they had hoped for...

I'm sure that that's how Karen remembers it. But it's not how I remember it. The real truth is probably somewhere in between; I've had enough experience with failing memories lately to know that mine is not infallible. But now, look at this picture from that same page...

That's me -- the tall one in the back. The innocent-looking one. Do I look like someone who would deliberately set out to ruin a child's delusions of Santa Claus?!! Certainly not! True, another year, another Christmas, I may have beckoned a couple of my sisters into the pantry, where I had possibly discovered three coordinated skirt-and-sweater sets, and perhaps a toy or two. (And if I did that, my intentions would have been pure -- I would have only wanted to share my exciting discovery -- those skirts and sweaters were gorgeous!) But I am absolutely certain that Mom and Dad never hid anything in the basement of that house on Franklin Street. That was a dark, nasty, scary place that had a cistern in one corner!

No. I clearly remember that Christmas Eve of 1967. I was wide awake. (I never slept on Christmas Eve.) Mom and Dad had gone to bed and the house was quiet. I decided that, since I was awake anyway, I might as well go downstairs and check out what was under the tree...

HOLY CRAP -- MY BROTHER GOT A BIKE!

I knew for certain that I would positively explode if I didn't share this information at once! I crept back upstairs and woke up the other kids. I know these were my exact words: "You guys, Santa came!" (See -- I absolutely did not try to make sure that Mark -- or anyone else -- no longer believed in Santa Claus!)

So we all traipsed downstairs. If only Mom and and Dad had been ready with their camera then. Because Mark was beside himself with excitement. "I got a bike," he whispered, awestruck. (I admonished him to act surprised in the morning so that Mom and Dad wouldn't know he'd already seen this wonderful surprise.)

Somehow, we all got back to bed without our parents hearing us. I don't think any of us slept. Somehow morning arrived. (Probably 5:00 a.m., but still morning, if you're a kid and it's Christmas.) Mom made sure we all stayed in our rooms until they were downstairs with the lights on and the camera ready. Giddy with excitement, and adorable in our pink flannel gowns (except for Mark), we tumbled down the stairs.

I knew I should have spent some time rehearsing my brother. I don't know why I trusted him to pull off "surprised and excited." He looked at what was obviously the most magnificent gift beside the tree -- a brand new, red two-wheeler -- and said, "A bike," in the same tone of voice he would have used to say "Cereal."

A tragedy, indeed, as Karen said in the last sentence of her narrative. But not the tragedy of a big sister giving away the secret of Christmas. The tragedy of a big sister who couldn't stay in bed, couldn't keep a secret, and couldn't think of anyone but herself in the excitement of a moment.

I am so sorry that I ruined Mom and Dad's Christmas that year. But I don't think I'm the villain I was made out to be. At least not the way I remember it.

Tree Talk, Part Two

Tannenbaum 2011 -- What remains (1/2/12)


Well, when I said I hoped we'd be talking again, I was picturing you standing there all decked out in ornaments and lights -- you know, like you were yesterday.

Did you say something?

Guess not. You probably don't feel much like talking to me, do you?

Well, I don't blame you. But even though I'm sure you feel way worse than I do, I'm feeling pretty bad myself, you know...

Sure, we didn't get off to the best start, but I really did learn to love you as you stood there in front of the window, making our living room glow so beautifully. I feel very sad that you had to go so early. We usually keep our trees around until at least the second week of January. But you were so dry -- needles everywhere. Plus, I guess you were becoming a fire hazard. I'm sorry.

Of course it's not your fault that I feel bad. I was going to be sad today, anyway. See these guys...

Tom and Rosemary Karlek, 12/26/51

...That's my mom and dad. They would have celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary the day after Christmas. Well, I guess they wouldn't have actually celebrated, since they weren't together anymore. They separated after they'd been together 40 years. Probably should have separated sooner, seeing as they'd stopped being happy together a long time ago. But that's neither here nor there, as they say. They're both gone now, and I miss them like crazy.

So anyway, there was that anniversary, which always sets off a string of sad remembrances for me...Mom died in February, 11 years ago. Dad got remarried in July of 2007. The last time I actually saw him was at my daughter, Meagan's, wedding in September of that year.

Today is the fourth anniversary of the last time I ever spoke to him. I guess we talked for a few minutes on Christmas -- He was at my sister, Karen's, house in Michigan, and I was here in North Carolina. I know she had a houseful of people, and things were pretty hectic, so if we did chat, it was only for a few seconds. I called him the day after New Year's, though, and we had a really nice conversation. He told me how much he loved the quilted wall hanging I'd made him. I felt good after we'd talked, which wasn't always the case.

Two days later, my sister, Melissa, called to tell me that Dad had died that morning while walking with his wife, Betty. They'd been to Mass -- First Friday. I knew he'd taken the Express, straight to Heaven, because I immediately felt him all around me.

I'm thankful that he got to go so quickly. He had no unfinished business to see to. It makes me happy to think that he got to leave the way a lot of people would wish for -- No pain, no lingering. Just "Hi, Tom -- Good to have you here." But I sure do miss him.

Okay, then. Thanks for listening. Since I've gotten that off my chest, maybe I won't have to write a sad, Missing-Dad blog on the anniversary of his death.

Thanks for being such a nice tree.