Columnist Susan Snyder: Unwrapping Christmas memories

Tuesday, Dec. 24, 2002 | 8:16 a.m.

I grew up believing Dad had holy intervention in hanging our Christmas lights.

"(Insert name of our blessed savior) another one's gone out!"

"(Again) hand me that ladder!"

"(Middle initial is H) this extension cord's too short!"

Given that whole miracle business, I always wondered why he didn't help my old man a little more. Seemed miraculous that the lights worked without anyone being hospitalized.

What type of Christmas memories are stored away by people who pay professionals to select and arrange their annual light displays?

They probably recall quiet evenings wrapping gifts, joking sweetly with each other and enjoying whatever configuration of relatives fate has dealt them.

But their poor kids must learn to swear on the street. It's a travesty. Another great American holiday tradition tossed aside for the sake of raising well-adjusted children.

This is the trap that lures adults into being "honest" about Santa Claus so children don't feel lied to. Please. There's no honesty in Christmas. That would take out all the fun.

Sure, it was traumatic for my older brother to notice the department store Santa didn't wear real boots but black boot tops slapped over brown loafers. He realized Mom and Dad had been lying to him for years.

But from this he learned the Golden Rule: Do Unto Little Sisters As Others Have Done Unto You.

And we have the photograph. I'm age 3, dressed in a purple velvet coat and bonnet and recoiling from Santa in total disgust. Seconds before I climbed onto his lap my brother leaned over and whispered, "He's wearing a dirty T-shirt."

Parents also cannot overlook the importance of Christmas in teaching children about sneaking, peeking and covering up -- skills they will need in the corporate or political arenas. I weep for the modern American child.

My mother's abilities to lie and sneak twinkled like the North Star.

One year she made lists of all the gifts my brother and I were receiving and taped them to the refrigerator.

They were written in shorthand.

When she brought home items of clothing she would have me back up to her closed bedroom door. She then opened the door and held the garment against my back. By running her hands the length of my body and along both arms and legs, she could gauge the fit without my figuring out what type of clothing it was.

"OK. That's it," she'd say, giving a shove and shutting the door. A more cruel woman never lived.

In fifth grade, I outsmarted her. I wanted to play the drums. My parents, who made sure my brother and I endured a lifetime of music lessons, bought a red-sparkle drum set and hid it in their closet.

I peeked. And 1971 remains the lousiest Christmas on record.

Gone was the gleeful anticipation that pulled me from bed Christmas morning. All day I was forced to live the lie for the sake of my folks' feelings. It was dreadful. I have never peeked again.

Have not.

Maybe there was some merit in the mayhem that was our tradition. We learned that the miracle of magic lay in having faith. Surprise comes with patience.

And the day belongs to, well, you know -- that guy who helped hang the lights.