Buckshots

      As we celebrated Christmas throughout my childhood, I spent a lot of time with kinsmen who grew up poor during the depression.   They “tsk- tsked” the relative orgy of gifts we received, while feeling compelled to tell us how rough they had it growing up.   It became a competition to detail how poor they were and how we should pity their plight when they were my age.      Stories abounded about their meager gifts and how glad they were to receive them.   We were told we should be ashamed of ourselves for asking for specific gifts and we should be grateful for what we received.   “Why, when I was your age, all I received for Christmas was a piece of hard candy and new shoelaces.”        OK, that’s pretty rough…but when it did not receive the proper response after the 20th telling, it changed to, “Why, when I was your age, all I received was a strand of barbed wire to use as shoelaces in my work boots.”        Not to be out done, another aunt or uncle would say, “Wel

       I have struggled my entire life attempting to embrace and love Santa.      However, ever since I can remember he has seemed arrogant, pompous and intrusive.   “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake”?…”He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for   goodness sake”???   Santa struck me as scary as clowns…(I do not trust clowns, the Lone Ranger or anyone who hides their face.)      Even as a little kid, the definition of “good” seemed arbitrary and does this scary pervert see us sleeping and probably in stages of nakedness, as we prepare for bed?  How does one define “good”?   If one is not “good”, he receives no gifts?  By whose interpretation is one good?  I was always told we received gifts from Santa and gifts from our parents, often wrapped in the same paper.  I felt if the “poor” kids in town we were collecting for in class needed help, Santa could provide it…he never did.  It was up to us to kick in food and toys for the under-privileg