So what was done around here to celebrate Christmas? A tree? Eggnog? Sleigh rides? Midnight mass? Carols? Vodka? Cards? Gifts? Almost zero. Why? Well, I guess I was elected to be Santa Claus. Bad Santa. Problem. I have no elves. Elves are some of Santa's magic. I think lack of elves happens to a lot of people.
In order to make a nod to Christmas, I had decided to make a special meal of Cornish hen with Stovetop stuffing, Heinz gravy, and baked potatoes.
Before the festivities I rested for a while in my room. It was Saturday, the day of rest, and I observe the Sabbath. I try to observe the Sabbath.
I suddenly heard screaming from the living room. Strange, it wasn't my mother's voice. It could not be anyone else, because not only were the doors deadbolted, but the storm doors were also locked to make sure there were no bad guys getting in. Everyone that knows us knows to call first because it's almost impossible to knock, although, yes, some have tried. You'll never get me to come to the door that way. Figuring that out, someone had tried banging on my bedroom window the night before on Christmas Eve at midnight. That resulted in calling the Sheriff.
I wondered if I should check to see what was going on in the living room. Well, OK. Somehow my mother's friend Ichabod had gotten in. This was odd. Mom doesn't know how to undo all the locks. Sometimes I have even removed the doorknobs to slow her down, since it's dangerous for her to go outside or even go to the door. So what was the emergency? "Your mother needs you!" he cried. "For what?" "Help her get back to her chair!"
Ichabod was screaming about what a hard time he had breaking into my house. He had had to break down the storm door and beat on the front door until Mrs. Billingsley managed to get it open. I went out to see what was left of my storm door. And he was angry at how long it had taken him to pry open the lock on the storm door. He had almost left! Being Ichabod he thought he could just stop by without calling. Well, he guessed not. I suppose he convinced himself that he was breaking down the door to save my mother. No pulling out the cell phone for him!
Then Ichabod launched into what he thought of me not sitting in the living room with my mother at all times. But why would I do that?
I said, "You know, I'm here taking care of my mother. I'm not the bad guy." "I didn't say you were..." Oh??
I went into the kitchen to check the bird, etc. Ichabod followed. He sat at the table and critiqued my housekeeping of the kitchen. ?? "OK, Ichabod, the boxes need to be burned and that's the clutter you're seeing." He began to offer insights on fixing dinner. Finally he positioned one of the chairs in the way of my exit out of the kitchen, and left.
Every holiday is the same. Ichabod. Ichabod was told two years ago that he wasn't allowed over here anymore because of his abusiveness on Thanksgiving. He wept. I relented. Iffff he could behave himself. Ichabod can't behave himself. The son of a preacher, his mother raised him to believe that he was God's little avenging angel. I was not Santa. I was Satan. I must answer to Ichabod.
Ichabod used to fly on the fact that he was the bearer of the golden tool. But sometimes age robs one of the power of the golden tool. Well, I sympathize. His mean ole wife had left him. OK, her choice was either that or suicide I suppose. And his life became darker and darker, making her wish like anything she had stayed, no doubt. Well, he could pull out the pathetic card.
So, realizing his plight I had called him and told him we had a gift for him for his birthday, which was the week before Christmas. He would need to come here to pick it up. He said he was busy. "Whew!" I thought.
But to Ichabod this was an invitation to come here a week later at his convenience on the Sabbath, and Christmas. Oh horrors! Another Ichabod Christmas.
I have been raving about it ever since. I'm trying to stop.
