Dickens Mimicry

Waking up to a frigid breeze, blowing through a cracked open window, with a particularly strong aroma of butterscotch in the air, was the perfect morning. There had never been a more jocund six year old girl to have walked the earth. A New Jersey winter, as cold as ice, with snow piled three feet high, which encompassed the houses, provided an adventure in and of itself. The sheer joy of Christmas was unimaginable for a light-hearted little girl, who had never fully comprehended any true feelings which Christmas brought. Though terrified at the mere thought of Santa Claus, it was nearly impossible to resist dashing through the halls to see what gifts Santa, and mom and dad had brought. The Christmas tree was flooded with gifts of all shapes and sizes. Looking to the left, looking to the right, looking directly forward – presents surrounded the living room. Nothing could bring more happiness, except, of course, the early presents, Max and Heidi, the new additions to the family (German shepherd puppies) running into the room to greet everyone. It was difficult not to notice the brownies and cookies missing from the table, with a note from Santa, addressing each of us, by name, and telling us how good we had all been this year. The note was on a yellow sheet of notebook paper, almost exactly like the paper I always drew on in mommy’s office. Without one real thought on the subject, I skipped straight towards the tree, where Santa had placed his gifts for us, and sat on my new pink and white Barbie four wheeler, with a horn and car noises. When we had each opened our fifty-something gifts, my brothers and I immediately sprinted outside, into the three feet high snow, trudged through to the road, and rode around on our cool, new automobiles. The road was slippery from the frozen-over gravel, and the air was dry, from the freezing winds, but we didn’t care. It was Christmas. I was six, Iain was three, and Jacob was two. What care could we have had when it was Christmas? None come to mind.