In lieu of a longer holiday post, here’s some violin tunes…
So, it’s Christmas Eve and we swung by the centre where my ninety-five year old grandmother lives. Claire brought her piano music, and on a whim I brought my violin… and then proceeded to pull it out and play a few songs in the coffee area (Karin accompanying on piano). So, counting my daughter (who took the photo) and my grandmother, plus the dozen or so elderly ladies drinking coffee (who clapped enthusiastically when after we played) I seem to have had a bit of an audience.
So… I guess I just had my first public performance. Yikes!
Photo: December… 2014… sigh.
Here we go again… December is Blog-Every-Day Month. No guidelines. No rules. No set topic. No nothing no how. Just an article with at least one complete sentence, every day…
December 24… because it’s Christmas Eve.
Here comes Santa Clause… here comes… Oh, wait. Did I mention that Claire no longer buys the Santa story? I may have. I may not. But today is as good a time as ever for a repost of something I wrote last Easter.
Admitting the Conspiracy
“Dad,” she says with a grim frown and a pair of furrowed brows. A piece of half-eaten toast is dangling from her fingers as she sits at the breakfast table in her pyjamas. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah?” I nudge.
Her voice is casual, but serious. “If you’re the Easter Bunny, why did you trick me?”
The obvious cracks first appeared just a day earlier in the fragile mythology of our traditional chocolate-filled, egg-hunting holiday morning, revealing a glimmer of childhood doubt during the previous night’s dinner. She was poking and prodding at some of the more obvious logical inconsistencies that come along with the tale of a sentient rabbit delivering chocolate to our house –or, more specifically, her grandparent’s house where she’ll be this year when the egg hunt occurs– and that particular rabbit-hole of reasoning led her to calling us out on our obvious participation. Her conclusion was simply this: Dad must be the Easter Bunny.
And nothing more was said on the subject… at least, not until breakfast.
“We didn’t trick you.” I fudge the chocolate-coated truth. “Almost all parents tell their kids the same thing. It’s like a kind of game. And grown-ups,” I fumble, “We try to make things fun for kids by telling a story about special occasions.”
“So, I pretend to be the Easter Bunny and you get candy. And when you’re old enough you get to help. You can pretend along with the grown ups and help trick the younger kids.”
“Like my cousins?” She nods approvingly.
She nods approvingly, and takes a couple more bites of her toast. I watch her, the turning of her mental gears almost visible on her solemn expression. “Does that mean,” She says finally, her glare narrowing as she stares me down, “That you’re Santa, too?”
I hesitate, mumble something vague and desperate, watching in slow motion as the last vestiges of her fragile belief tumble from her little mind. I ultimately just nod and shrug.
“But,” she pauses as a look of horror creeps over her face. “Does that mean Gary the Elf isn’t real, either?”
I nod again, and I can feel the guilt spreading across my face like a mask as the reality about her apparent personal messenger from the guy in the red suit vanishes like a puff of smoke. Two tears rolls poetically down her cheek and she wipes them away with the cuff of her pyjama sleeve. “I guess that’s okay.” She says finally, and then as though a switch had been thrown, a sly grin invades her sad expression.
“Can I tell some other kids?” She smirks.
At least the first letter got dropped into the mailbox, zipped off into neverland by Canada Post never to be seen from again, and out of my hair.
This one, written with love and care by an adoring seven year old fan, was propped up with a plate full of cookies on our mantle, and I’m left to hide it and make sure she thinks its gone forever (or at least for a half-dozen years when I can show it to her nostalgically and laugh) because the only thing worse than finding out your dad took the letter and hid in the back of the filing cabinet is to wake up on Christmas morning and think Santa couldn’t even be bothered to read your letter.
So… in about 2020, I need to dig it out and re-read it.