“Don’t lick that!” Grandma snapped. “You nuts? It’s got shlack on it!"  It wasn’t the first time I’d been warned about the toxic hazards of ingesting shlack. Every December, my grandmother toted her gingerbread house in from the garage. After delicately wiping away a year’s worth of dust, she centered the piece on top of our Zenith television console. The gumdrop cottage was practically a relic. It had held up decently through the Nixon, Ford, and Carter administrations; due to several gloppy coats of clear varnish. But by the mid 80’s the walls had fallen victim to crumbling and mouse nibbles. I’d read enough fairytales in my ten years, to assume only a wicked maniac would design a cookie house, frost and decorate it with candy, and then brush layers of poison all over it. My grandma was not a wicked maniac; she was a soft-spoken southern lady who taught me to play dominoes and cooked mean fried bologna sandwiches. Besides, my tongue had already slid across the sweet icing roof; I wasn’t gasping or falling over like those gluttonous dimwits in my storybook. I had a sneaking suspicion the house was not poison. Grandma just didn’t want my slobber messing it up. You couldn’t trust everything grownups said when they wanted to scare little kids into obedience. But this particular Christmas season in 1986 I had another motive for being good. Grandma had promised if I managed to keep myself off Santa’s naughty radar until Christmas Eve, there would be a big, big, big surprise for me.  

The week leading up to Christmas was agonizingly slow. I passed the dragging hours watching cartoons, slurping creamy eggnog, and thinking about my surprise. I was torn between wanting Christmas Eve to hurry but not wanting Winter Break to end. School had become unbearable: Dress slacks, a penchant for whimsical pins, and thtupid, thtupid lithp had helped solidify my reputation as the weirdest chick in Mr. Parkman’s fifth grade class. More than anything, I hoped my surprise was something totally rad that would deliver me from the painful stigma of social outcast. Unfortunately Grams and I were not on the same page.

"Cabbage Patch Twins?" Grandma asked excitedly. We were sitting in the dining room; Grams at the table, me the floor. She was rearranging her nativity scene. A year earlier the display caught fire when a high watt light bulb used for illuminating the Star of Bethlehem slipped from its perch and fell into the manger’s hay. The seared mess was missing an ox and short one wise man. But Grams insisted it wasn’t about the looks, it was about the meaning.

"Yeah, I seen em’" I replied unenthusiastically. "But I gotta Cabbage Patch Kid." Most girls in my class were asking for Guess Jeans and Bonnie Bell Lip-Smacker. Can’t remember what I really wanted that year, pogo stick, perhaps tape recorder. Fairly certain pants weren’t trumping the list. But dolls? Childish and bor-ring. I owned a gazillion babies I never played with.

"Cutest darn things," Grams pressed. "Saw some girls’ bout your age gaga for them dolls. If I were you, that’s what I’d ask Santa for."

Frustrated, I excused myself, grabbed my parka, and shuffled outside. I crunched across the cold brown grass, hooked my arm onto a low hanging elm branch, sucked in a breath, and then hoisted my body into the tree. I climbed higher, higher, higher until thick bare branches became thin rods sagging with my weight. I whispered a curse word and grumbled how grownups were always trying to stuff their own junk in your head. A hot tear trickled down the side of my flushed cheek. I wasn’t a little kid! Damn it. I sniffled and brushed the tear away with the back of my hand. Something I hadn’t noticed caught my eye: an unraveled piece of bright red yarn snagged on the rough bark. A shock of adrenalin pierced my chest. I remembered the naughty list and hoped the string wasn’t somehow Santa’s way of checking on me. Deciding it was magic, I peeled it off the tree, and jabbed it into my pocket.

Christmas Eve finally arrived. I slipped into fresh slacks and tugged a striped sweater over my head; brushing against the two embarrassing knots growing on my chest. I’d overheard grownups whisper about cancer and the threat of finding lumps. Were my bumps cancer? I’d save that anxiety for later. I rooted through my toy chest until I found Barbie’s Jeep; inside was a portly pink pig from my Playskool farm set. Just for kicks, I forced Porky into one final suicide jump, sailing the Jeep over the edge of my toy box and crashing into other toys with a loud explosion. Chuckling, I plucked the swine from the driver’s seat, wrapped it in a paper towel, and secured it with the magic red string.

 In the dining room, Grams vacuumed and laid out a spread: cold cuts, deviled eggs and spice cookies. A recording Harry Simeone’s Little Drummer Boy crackled from the record hutch. Even Grandpa, reading TV Guide in his recliner, looked squeaky clean.

“Whose commin’ over?” I asked reaching for an egg. “Any kids?”

“Few folks from bowling,” Grams answered, smacking my hand away, “and your surprise will be here shortly.”

“Yessss!” I sang, sputtering flecks of creamy yolk across the table. "Before everybody gets here, want your gift?”

“You gave it to me already,” replied Grams pointing to a clothes pin reindeer dangling from our Christmas tree.“

"Awww... That’s just a school thing. Here’s your real surprise.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the paper towel. “Inside is for your Baby Jesus barn. But the real gift is on the front. This red string here, is magic.”

The doorbell rang; friends slushed into our house carrying homemade breads, fudge, and bottles of liquor to warm the winter evening. A few kids came, mostly younger; we snagged cookies and ran to play. I watched nervously while they dragged, banged and dropped cookie crumbs on my toys. Sure hoped Gram didn’t expect me to share my surprise when it got here.

There was one final knock.  

“Tiff,” Grams hollered. “Honey, you and the kids see who’s at the door.” What? My grandmother never let me answer the door, especially at night. “Tiff-ny Ann?” She called again impatiently. “Think your surprise is here.”

That’s all she had to say. I bolted to the door, little kids trailing behind me. I swung the door wide open and standing on the front porch was….SANTA CLAUS! Terrified, I slammed the door in his face, and quivered into living room where the adults were getting toasted.

“Who was it?” Grandma asked barely concealing her smile.

“Sa..Sa...Ssssanta.” I stammered. Somebody had slipped to the door and welcomed Claus in. The jolly man barreled into the room, with a mighty pack slung over his shoulder, ho-ho-ho-ing up a storm. He shook hands with adults and passed out candy canes to kids. He bent down, winked, and handed me a candy. Kids excitedly formed a line to sit on his lap. I allowed the babies to go first, then it was my turn. I climbed onto his plush fur lap. He leaned in and asked me what I wanted. Unbelievably nervous, I wasn’t sure where to look or what to say. Did he know I licked the gingerbread house? What about the curse word? Would he rat on me? Could Santa Claus whoop me? If Santa’s magic could see me at all times why did he even need me to tell him what I wanted? I looked down at my hands, frantically grinding the candy cane into a peppermint powder. I wanted my grandma to stop treating me like a baby! I wanted kids at school to stop calling me weird! I wanted a cure for cancer!  

"Cabbage Patch Twins," I mumbled into Santa’s beard. As the night wore on Old Man Christmas kept knocking back the boozy eggnog. Every time he got up to leave, some dope would slosh another drink in his hand. Did Santa forget what night it was? I grew nervous. He had a long journey ahead. Shouldn’t he be going easy on the whiskey? I kept watching, certain any minute he’d scuttle up the chimney. But hours slid by, while St. Nick continued stuffing his face with salami and cocktails.      

 The next morning, it was still dark outside when I darted to the tree. Just as I expected, Cabbage Patch Twins with matching suits. Maybe those were for Grandma, I thought. Santa probably hid my gift somewhere else. I started rifling in cabinets, and combing under chairs. When I got to the hall coat closet, the door felt jammed. I yanked the knob harder; the door thrust open, a giant red bag filled with newspaper spilled into the foyer. Uh-oh, Santa forgot his pack! Why was it filled with paper? Gram needed to call him right away. I marched down the hallway dragging the sack. When I walked past the guestroom I heard loud snoring. Who the heck had a sleepover on Christmas Eve? I opened the door just a sneak to see who was making such a racket. I gasped; Santa’s red trousers were draped over a rocker. The quilt concealed whoever was snoozing in bed, but I could see a shoulder covered in curly white hair. Ewww grody. If Santa was here that meant…. He missed Christmas! Boy was he busted! Were the reindeers still on the roof? Rudolph and the guys must’ve been starving. I scurried to the dining room, reached in the nativity scene and grabbed a handful of Baby Jesus’s hay. Since that ornery coot was on his own naughty list now- I snuck a lick of the gingerbread roof. Then, quietly I padded down the hall, opened the front door and slipped out.

I looked long and hard that freezing Christmas morning; even climbing the elm where I could get a better view of the roof. But there were no reindeers or sled anywhere up there. Confused, I slunk back into the house and quietly clicked on the TV. Surely it would be on the news. I snickered a bit, imagining those chumps at school waking up without gifts from Santa. But what about those poor kids in other countries whose only gifts came from Big Man Claus? What I saw on the television made my jaw drop. Kids across the country were showing off presents left under the tree by… Santa? How could it be? Then it hit me, oh boy, like a lump of coal in the belly, it hit me. The old rascal sawing logs in the guest room wasn’t St. Nick.

Santa, reindeers, elves, naughty/nice list -it was all a setup! A nasty scheme plotted by adults to trick kids into being good. Santa wasn’t magic- he was fake! Well, they bamboozled the wrong ten year old this time. I took all the gifts from under the tree and hid them in the backyard. Then I went to the fridge, pulled out the Christmas pies and bone-in-ham and fed them to our German shepherd..... (F.Y.I. Yes you can get a spanking on Christmas Day)

It’s been 25 years since that Christmas. Last week I walked to my mailbox, inside was a manila envelope with an Arkansas postmark. I sighed; I’ve been begging Grandma for several years now, to stop sending gifts and spend the money on medicine, a nice supper, or trip to the local casino. I tore into the envelope, and fished out the contents: An old photo plus something wrapped in tissue paper. On the back of the picture she’d written, “25 years can’t believe it. Remember the Magic? –Love, Grams."  I unrolled the tissue, out sprung a plastic pig, and scrap of dirty yarn. I choked back tears. The gingerbread house had crumbled to dust; nativity scene-replaced. But the magic- she’d kept the magic. That photo- I’m sharing with you, the pig- has swanky new digs on the dashboard of my truck, and the scrap of magic- In the pocket of my slacks, of course.