Not only was St. Nicholas on site, but all 9 Reindeer as well. Rudolph, as fits his spectacular deformity, had his own pen. The others were together in stalls that ran along the eastern wall of the playground on which Christmas Village was constructed, shadowed by the multi-story low income housing complex where my eccentric Aunt Edna resided. And we musn’t forget the elves, who plied their trade with diligence and pride, not to mention brandy, in the onsite workshop. We were told that only “special” elves were transported down to Christmas Village, presumably on the “Short Sleigh” displayed in the center courtyard. Tucked away in the back of this municipal playground was a display of Dickens Christmas Carolers, complete with piped in Victorian Christmas songs, and an Unconstitutional Nativity scene with Nordic looking life size figurines.
The lines were long when I was a child, but the wait was always worth it to see the real Santa and get the substantial parting gift from Santa’s bag. Then out the back door and into the Toy Workshop with a really cool toy display, where the special elves were always jolly, flasks in front of each one at the designated work benches. Elves, we surmised, are apparently named after snacks – like Skippy and Jiffy and Jerky. I wasn’t sure until adulthood what Stiffy was named after. Then again out the back door and to the 8 tiny Reindeer. We always brought carrots to feed them – what a thrill for a child!
Then on to Rudolf, whose red nose was never ignited, since it wasn’t Christmas Eve. From there it was a few steps to Santa’s Sleigh and family photos. Finally, as if to intentionally sedate the children, you complete the tour with Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe and Scandinavian Jesus. A more idyllic Christmas appetizer could not be found!
Sadly, times change. As my offspring are wont to point out at every opportunity, I’m old. Whether the world actually changes qualitatively or the cynicism of age discolors the idealized nostalgia, it matters not. The end result is the same: happy memories are slowly but surely eroded away ‘til all that’s left is that same nauseous feeling you get when you empty your overripe Christmas stocking only to find 30 pounds of frickin’ coal. Here are my adult recollections of Christmas Village from taking my own children there:
· Waiting in line in subfreezing temperatures, people take turns warming their hands over the fire barrel placed there for the convenience of the police officer assigned to Santa duty. Far from being the benevolent public servant who stops traffic to let mother duck and her ducklings cross the busy intersection, our man in blue is just an even larger version of the fat, self-absorbed, uniform-obsessed kid you went to high school with. You pretend to ignore him but he’s conversing with the still unemployed bastard who stole your tenspeed out of your garage when he was a teenager. This guy would steal food from Oliver Twist – take that Dickens!
· After you’ve waited in line for an hour and you’ve lost all feeling in your extremities, you finally make it into the enclosed portico just outside the door to Santa’s room and who praytell is standing there manning the woodpile with a familiar goofy grin on his face? Another High School classmate who not only managed to earn a diploma but also a place on the National Sex Offender Registry – a pedophile on the town payroll working at Christmas Village!!!!!
· Into Santa’s room. The fake Santa suit actually wasn’t bad. But every inch of the wall behind ole Saint Nick was covered in various colors of garland, while the ornaments on the Christmas tree were overwrought with tons of tinsel. I think the town must have gotten a deal from the Torrington Company on its scrap metal after it closed down and 40% of the able bodied population was layed off. Merry Christmas! The substantial parting gifts were now little trinkets like the ones you win at the local arcade. I suspect there may have been layoffs at the North Pole as well.
· Next came the elves. I swear they were burning incense to mask the smell of cheap booze. The reality of sitting on a hard wooden stool in cramped quarters banging on the same wooden train for hours at a time set in, and the booze smell made perfect sense. Jiffy and Skippy the peanut butter twins were still there, but, as I read in the local newspaper, Stiffy, who was being detained by local authorities, was aptly named as he was, like his boss, fond of sitting little kiddies on his lap, but for all the wrong reasons (that was one choppy effed up sentence, in more ways than one!)
· A new building had been put up solely for Mrs. Claus. Feminism had made its way to Torrington!
· Next came the Reindeer. Unfortunately, I had to eat the carrot I brought with me as the large sign by the deer pens explained that the US Dept. of Agriculture has made it a crime to feed Dasher and Dancer. Not to be undone, the Centers for Disease Control had its own sign describing in extremely uncertain scientific terms that these visitors from Norway could quite possibly be carrying some exotic and potentially fatal disease – this explained the second fence creating a buffer between the children and Cupid.
· Same crap goes for Rudolf, only now he shared his special space with a hot little number called Snowflake. It’s good to be Rudolf.
· On to the Sleigh. Perhaps the only thing that hadn’t changed. Either it had shrunk or my ass had gotten fatter. You decide.
· Finally to the back and Dickens and the Baby Jesus. Still boring, though Jesus’s hair was now brown.
It’s amazing what age and a warped sense of reality can do to your memories!
Believe The Captain when he says: At least Mrs. Claus was hot!
Yours soaking my hands and feet in lukewarm water,
The Captain
OK. I lied. Mrs. Claus looks like a man (and could very well be one).
Yes, it really exists. I didn't imagine it.
No comments:
Post a Comment