This candle is a family heirloom. He's been part of my Christmas landscape for as long as I can remember. And although more than thirty years old, Santa is as sprightly as ever.
Look at him: part of his left mitt was chewed off sometime in the late 70s, so he seems to be patting his hair coquettishly rather than waving. His cheeks and mouth are red, his eyelashes long, his wick still erect.
He is one of a set of three: two Santas and a Frosty the Snowman. Mom gave each of my siblings and I one when we moved out. She's funny like that. Every year I get a Christmas decoration in my stocking, be it a plastic penguin on skis, or a glass ornament purchased as part of a community fundraising effort, or a stuffed bear sporting a festive tuque. In the old days, mothers would collect linens for their daughters to prepare them for when they had households of their own. My mother does the same but with ornaments, as though a house is only a home at Christmastime when it contains a porcelain set of St. Nicks from around the world. I don't think any of us will ever burn our bequeathed candles. After seeing them lined up on side tables for a few dozen Decembers, setting fire to Santa and watching him melt would feel like sacrilege.
When I was growing up, my parents only lit candles that went on birthday cakes. Holiday pillars kept their white waxy tips from one year to the next, and this didn't seem unusual to me. My parents are not mood-lighting people. Although never stated, I think they view candle burning as an extravagance, and the flickering light an impediment to properly viewing the contents of their dinner plates. When we were young they probably also worried that one of us would accidentally burn the house down.
A few Christmases ago I took the train for the yearly trip to see my family. I arrived in the evening and mom picked me up at the station. When we got home I opened the front door and was greeted by loud music and a blaze of light. I can't remember whether carols were playing or if dad had simply put on some Dire Straits or Springsteen or Beatles or what. In any case, he was dancing, the tree lights were on along with all the overhead lights and lamps, and every single decorative candle in the room was lit. My sister and brother were already there, enjoying the show.
"He's been into the sauce," said Heather.
Dad looked over at mom and I and froze, making a mock show of fear. "Uh oh, now I'm in for it. Your mother's gonna kill me." Then he resumed his dance, throwing his head back and his arms up in the air.
"I did it, honey! I lit them! I lit them all!"
2 comments:
I like how his mittens and suit and white colouring suggest rocket popsicles!
My brother actually did accidentally light a table centrepiece on fire one Christmas.
Your father was wise to wait until his children were grown, though I think my brother was in his 20's when the incident occurred.
Our clan is not known for their motor skills.
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