The Night We Saw Rudolph

Of all the memories I have in my life, some of my most vivid are of the holiday season. It was my mother’s favorite time of year, and she always tried to make it special. As a child I would get so cranked up about Christmas, I’d be a ball of stress the whole month as I carefully counted down the days on my advent calendar.

It would start the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, as I watched cartoons in my pajamas with a notebook and pencil. Every commercial would feature something else that I positively, absolutely needed Santa to bring me. Just in case I missed anything, I would drag the huge Sears catalog which weighed half my body weight, up to my bedroom and carefully circle everything I didn’t realize that I couldn’t possibly live without until I saw it.

The tinsel on our tree was laid on so thick you could smell it burning into the giant light bulbs, so hot you could heat the living room with them. My mother featured various color themes over the years, from multi, to white to the well intentioned but woefully depressing blue Christmas. Before cable TV, we had only one shot at seeing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or It’s a Wonderful Life, and it would make my entire day to know that A Charlie Brown Christmas would be on later that night followed by the Bing Crosby special.

The night before the long awaited day, I’d don my new flannel PJs and leave cookies and milk for Santa, carrots for the reindeer, and my wish list so long it could be bound into a novel.

Christmas morning we’d peak down the stairs and nearly pass out at the excitement of seeing multitudes of gifts under the tree. And that is the moment it would all go bad for me, as deep from within I’d get a feeling that I had "pulled a fast one" on Santa. I knew I had not been as good as he thought I was, and felt undeserving of his generosity. Thoughts of the tree getting thrown out, no more holiday lights or TV specials, and another 364 days until the next holiday would depress me so badly I could barely enjoy the day I had waited and worried about for so long.

Eventually the little girl grew older, and replaced her giant list of "stuff" with a very short list of health for our family, peace for our world and a brighter future for those in need. But before that, I got another shot at discovering the magic of Christmas through my brother Stephen’s eyes, 10 years younger than me. Which brings me to the title of this column.

Of all my memories, there is one special one that Stephen and I shared that has become a holiday tradition. It is special not only because we both vividly recall it, but because it perfectly illustrates how when practical vs. magical, magical is the winner. I call this story, The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light. His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered "Rudolph…!" just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say "Remember the night we saw Rudolph?" and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond "That wasn’t Rudolph, it was…." and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say "SShhhh, it was Rudolph" and we’d just smile.

Although my brother has been gone 10 Christmases, I still tell that story every year to anyone who will listen. And looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.