Tuesday, December 22, 2009
So every year my father and his brothers and sisters tell the same Christmas story.
I thought I'd share it with you all.
My father had 7 brothers and sisters. His father died when his youngest sister Patsy was five days old. Leaving my Grandmother to raise the seven of them herself. She did a pretty incredible job considering there was no welfare, food stamps, wic, etc. So she started writing numbers for a living. But hey, when she died, she had a home in O'Hara township. (Apparently bought by hitting on the Easter number, 136. But that's a whole other story!)
Anyway, those early years were pretty rough to say the least. They lived across the street from St. Francis Hospital and were fed by the nuns with leftover food from the patients cafeteria.
Needless to say, my grandmother didn't have any money to buy them anything for Christmas. So being the genius that she was, she told them that if they didn't get everything they wanted for Christmas, is was because Santa is hard of hearing and probably didn't hear what they were saying.
Don't you love it?
On this particular Christmas morning they all woke up and ran down the stairs to see what Santa left them for Christmas. Of course all they got was the usual apple or orange. That's it.
My six or seven year old Uncle Paul (God rest his soul) looked at my Gram and said "God damn son of a bitch must have been stone deaf. I didn't get a God damn thing I asked for!"
Merry Christmas. Here's hoping your Santa isn't hard of hearing!!
*Picture below is The Madonna and Me on Santa's lap around 1960(I'm the little one). Our Santa was NEVER hard of hearing!