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 I grew up in Dallas, where we only lit our fireplace once a year - on
Christmas Eve!  There was never really a need for it, but it was my
family's tradition to host an annual  Christmas Eve party, and having a
fire roaring really added to the atmosphere. The party guests would
arrive, a grand ol' time would be had, the guests would leave, we'd put
out the fire in the fireplace, and I'd get ready for bed.

Of course, Santa always came later that night to bring all sorts of
goodies like She-Ra dolls and Strawberry Shortcake's Berry Happy Home.
One particular Christmas Eve (I was about 5 years old), I was really
worried about Santa burning his feet when he reached the hearth. Like
REALLY worried. The fire was almost out (there were a few hot embers
burning), but this "hot feet" problem was weighing heavily on my little
mind. What if Santa's boots weren't thick enough? He could really do
some damage to his feetsies!  And what if this injury prevented him from
making the rest of his visits? I would forever be known as the selfish
little fire-loving dragon-girl who ruined Christmas!

I pleaded with my father to clean out the entire fireplace that night (I
didn't want to take ANY chances). Of course, it's now around midnight,
and in the true spirit of Christmas parties, my father has had a couple
of cocktails.  He basically just dumps the hot embers into our large
outside trash can (you know the ones - those large gray plastic ones).
I guess the embers were hotter than he realized, because in the morning,
we go outside, and the entire trash can has melted into a gray plastic
puddle in our driveway. COMPLETELY melted. Dad had to scrape the plastic
off the concrete. It left a big stain.  I felt bad that my request had
ruined our trash can, but I secretly felt a little surge of pride for
the embers. The little embers that could! I came away that Christmas
with a little more respect for fire and a little less respect for hard

Update: The stain is still there in our driveway. My dad has since
passed away, but every time I visit home and see that stain, I can't
help but smile, thinking about my dad and the crazy things dads do to
make their little girls happy.



So here is my Santa story.
(You won't believe that I was living in the suburbs of Connecticut at the time.)
I was about 4 years old and my dad decided to drink a little too much that Christmas eve with his buddy that lived next door and they got an idea!
This is what I heard while waiting anxiously for sleep and Santa to come to the house.
" I am gonna shoot that Santa for landing on my roof ( sound like a gunshot) and (another gunshot) and I got Rudolph too!"
Needless to say all 4 kids in the house were a little traumatized by the whole ordeal. 
 Fortunately, my mom was able to convince us it was
all a joke and that Santa indeed was going to come to the house.
Good Vibes for you, Roscoe, Elf Up, and Mep in this Holiday Season!



Just thought I’d share a Swedish Santa-story.

In Sweden we do things differently. On Christmas (which we celebrate on the 24,th of December) the families get together and we eat traditional Swedish Christmas food. Ham, meatballs, herring, omelettes etc. Then after dinner, dad will go out “to buy the newspaper”. What he really does is he goes around the corner and puts on a Santa suit. Then he comes and knocks on the door. All the kids gather around him, and he’s carrying a big sack of presents. Each kid gets a present, and then Santa heads on out again, he has so many children to go to and all.. And then after a couple minutes dad comes back with the newspaper, and he’s always so sorry that “he missed Santa A-GAIN!”.

So that’s how we do it. Really extravagant families would actually hire some guy to come play Santa, thus totally messing with the kids’ heads.

Merry Christmas! Or as we say in Sweden: God Jul!



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