Published in the Ballston Journal December 16, 1998

With the season to be jolly just around the corner, I was rummaging through the little
back room in the garage just to see what kind of shape the boxes marked “Xmas” were in. The
family would soon be smelling turkey in the oven and other aromas too numerous to mention,
and with all the rush to come, I just wanted to start my favorite time of year in my own way
before schedules and necessities became mistaken for Christmas cheer.

All the boxes were in good shape, considering, and I found myself looking through the
very oldest of them, the ones with the broken ornament that belonged to a great aunt, cards from
friends no longer close, but never forgotten, the Mrs. Santa cookie jar too old for use, but too
respected to throw away, and of course, the snow sled made from Popsicle sticks by my now
seventeen-year-old, then only a second grader. As always it brought back many thoughts from
holidays long past.

And a smile from a holiday season when my seventeen-year-old was merely six.

Sarah was very excited at the prospect of seeing Santa Claus and telling him of all the
things she wanted to see under the tree. Mom and Dad followed the six-year-old through the
mall until they got to the record shop.

Sarah stopped quickly and stood completely still. Her eyes were as big as the bulbs we
had hung a few days earlier. She looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t seem to
get it out. She just stared. Standing in the doorway of the record shop was Santa himself.

“Hello, Sarah!” he exclaimed.

Stunned silence was his only greeting. He knows me!

Then a whispered “Santa!” with all the awe of a six-year-old’s imagination.

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. He had a broad face and a little round
belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right
jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

I truly did.

“Hello Santa!” said Dad with a giggle.

“Hello Mr. Reome, Mrs. Reome, how are you?” asked Santa himself.

Sarah’s eyes grew even larger. On my, he knows Mommy and Daddy!

Some ten years ago, in the small Clinton County town of Altona, tucked away in the
northeast corner of the state, known then for summer league baseball, Feinberg Park and RJ’s,
lived a rotund, jovial friend of mine, Rodney Nephew. Each year during the holiday season
Rodney would spread a little bit of Christmas joy to the less fortunate kids of the area in his own
special way. With a touch of white to color his beard and a natural build made for the familiar
red suit, he would become the favorite of the children in all of us, Santa Claus himself.

And on this special day, he created a Christmas memory for our family.

“And how is your baby brother Matt?” asked Santa himself as he looked back down at the
unmoving Sarah.

Oh my, he knows my brother too!

Santa himself continued to talk to Sarah as they stood together and Sarah’s need for
presents finally overcame her awe. She discussed her list and Santa himself listened with
undivided attention. Sarah was impressed and elated and excited and well, just everything as she
pulled at her coat and tried to get every word out as quick as possible!

“Good-bye Santa, have a Merry Christmas!” we all wished Santa himself on his way,
with Sarah the loudest.

“Good-bye Sarah, say hello to your little brother!” said Santa himself.

Mom and Dad continued to shop for a while. From the spirit of K-Mart to the grandeur
that was Montgomery Ward, Sarah retreated into reflective silence.

Mom and Dad stopped for lunch. Sarah ate without comment.

As they started home, Mom and Dad made conversation relating to the fact that Santa
knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you are awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or
good, so be good for goodness sake.

And with the same touch of wonder, from the backseat of the car, “And he even knows
Matt!”

I put the boxes back, just inside the door so they would be ready in a few days. I thought
of how things change and people go different ways. I wondered if Rodney still needed to add
color to his beard. We had kind of lost track of each other, with moves and jobs and such. But
Christmas comes every year memories and all. So lets all be good for goodness sake.

And to you Rodney, and Santa himself, a very Merry Christmas.

Published in the Ballston Journal February 26, 2003

The Boss and The Boss-in-Training and I were discussing the modern marvels of DVDs
and digital this and that, along with ATM’s and Pay at the Pump and such. These days are filled
with continual change and supposed improvements. I myself still have a fear of all these out of
control, it’s better for you, improvements. Perhaps it was something in my family history…
Dad stood up after dinner and said, “Can I have your attention please?” We were a bit
confused since there was only Mom and us at the table, no guests, and Dad was kind of acting
like Gene Rayburn on the Match Game TV show.

He walked over to the little set of shelves in the corner by the front door and pointed to
the small gray box sitting on the third shelf from the bottom. It had sort of a round screen on the
front, with two black knobs, one on each side of the bottom of the little device.

“This is an intercom.” Dad had raised one eyebrow as he spoke with a directness that
shook us a bit. We had no idea what an intercom was. It was 1964 and our idea of technology
was Batman’s utility belt.

“Mom, could you go out to the garage please?” asked Dad. Mom smirked and went out
the door. We heard the metal latch make its familiar sound as she lifted it and entered the paint
shop. Dad turned the knob on the left and the little box made a little scratch sound like a needle
dragging across a forty-five.

“Can you hear me Hon?” I was about to tell Dad that Mom had just walked by him to go

out to the garage and sure as hell couldn’t hear him when Mom’s voice came out of the screen
part of the little gray box.

“I sure can!” came out clear as if she was right there. Dad smiled smugly as we could
only look at each other in awe. Guys going around the planet and Mom talking from the garage,
it was certainly a brave new world.

“Now, I just want to point out that Mom can hear, and I, ” he paused after the I part and
made brief eye contact with each of us, “I can hear everything that goes on in this house when
your mother is in the shop helping me”.

Oh shit. We all thought the same thing. I know it sounds crude, but like that famous
person said, desperate times and desperate measures and foul language.

Mom was twice as fast as Dad when it came to masking a car for painting. She could fold
the old newspapers and run a line of tape down a piece of chrome with a steady hand. She never
overlapped on to the car body which would make a mark when the tape was pulled off, or leave a
piece of exposed chrome which would need the paint cleaned off after Dad sprayed the car. To
use Mom’s skills in the shop, we were left to the honor system and our own methods of
entertainment for an hour or two in the evening after dark. Mom and Dad could keep an eye on
things while we were playing outside, but when it got dark, and we had to go in, we were on our
own. It was good for us because we could do as we pleased from snacks to forbidden TV and the
old metal latch always gave us fair warning and time to cover our tracks. It was a good system,
which benefited us all, so it was of the few endeavors my sisters and I were allies in. This
intercom was an interference we did not want or need.

Dad broke the silence with a quick statement as he headed out the door, “Remember, I

can hear everything…” The statement hung in the air. It was raining out. We would be spending
the entire evening indoors. It could be an eternity with the box invading our every sound.

Lynn whispered first as I quietly cleared the table of the supper dishes, “What are we
gonna do?”

My non-existent brother Harry stood rubbing his chin, lost in thought, a student of Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle, an actor of considerable talent. Suddenly he smiled.

“Remember Glenda the baby-sitter?”

Glenda had led Harry on quite a chase for several battles, keeping him in line and
reporting any and all discretions to Mom and Dad when she baby-sat. The mere words, “baby-
sat,” irked Harry to no end. Finally, Harry finished Glenda’s career with a stroke of genius. One
cold afternoon Glenda was maintaining her Gestapo tactics and forcing us to play quietly outside
while she watched Hullabaloo on TV. Harry told our baby sister Jean to lie on the ground and
pretend to cry. This was Jean’s strong point at that age as she could scream for some twenty to
thirty minutes without taking a breath and in a pitch that got the neighbor’s dogs in a frenzy up to
a half mile away. Jean, thinking her big brother Harry was the greatest thing on earth, let go with
a wail that scared even us. Lynn immediately put phase two of the plan into motion by running to
our trailer and pounding on the door.

“Jean fell off the swing and hurt herself!” she yelled, “I think she’s bleeding!”

Glenda came outside, took one look at Jean and almost flew to the swing set. She
hollered at Harry what happened and kept asking Jean where it hurt and then asked Harry again
and he said she was upside down then landed on her head. Jean screamed in a range of high notes

that made your ears tingle, even threw in a limp left arm routine that she had been practicing but
hadn’t used as of yet. Lynn had made her way into the house and locked the door.

Harry looked at the trailer then down at Jean and smiled. Jean immediately stopped
screaming and smiled. Glenda just kneeled on the ground and stared at her.

“I think I scared me,” said the four-year-old con artist with the skill learned from
countless practices with her beloved big brother. Glenda was shaking, as all she had was a light
sweater, jeans and stocking feet. She said she was going to get her boots on and ran to the house.
The locked door took her by surprise.

I don’t know why people think that if you shake the crap out of a doorknob it will
automatically unlock. It seems that they also think that calling it names will be of some
consequence also. Never does, but still they try.

“Damn it!” she yelled several times. She was momentarily quiet when she noticed Harry
and Jean going in the back door at the other end of the trailer. Then she yelled worse and a whole
lot louder.

Mom and Dad arrived only a half hour later. Apologies didn’t seem to help and we never
saw Glenda again. Mom and Dad left us with grandma after that. Harry said he didn’t notice her
go outside. It wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t baby-sitting her.

And now the intercom had to go.

We picked up the kitchen and did the dishes with just the proper amount of noise and
conversation. There was so much please and thank you and brother dear and sister dear it was

almost sickening. We made sure everything was in order. Gilligan was on the TV.

“Is everything done in there?” came Dad’s voice with a bit of static. We could hear the
laughter in the background. Harry had a look come over his face just like John Wayne before the
gunfight.

Harry stood Jean on the chair by the shelves. Lynn went down the hallway and prepared.
Harry counted to three by putting up one finger, then two, then three, then yelled, “TAKE
THAT!” and punched his right fist into his left hand several times. Jean went into the high octave
range and Lynn ran down the hall, stomping all the way, yelling “PLEASE NO, PLEASE NO!”
The metal latch sounded immediately on the shop door and Dad hit the door just moments before
Mom and they slid to a halt in front of the living room entrance.

“Help me Skipper,” wailed Gilligan.

Lynn looked up first, as the rest of us were all sitting quietly engrossed in the trials and
tribulations of the first mate.

“Something the matter?” she asked in that syrup sweet voice.

Dad raised one finger. Yet he could think of nothing to say.

Mom covered her mouth with her hand and I could have sworn she was hiding a smile.

The intercom came up missing that weekend.

Harry – 1, Technology – 0.