Grandma Santa

Christmas brings memories of egg nog (something I really miss), shopping, presents, carols and the ever present struggle in my house growing up over when to open presents.  My Dad traditionally opened them on Christmas Eve while my Mom preferred Christmas morning.  There was usually a compromise involving opening one or two on the Eve and the rest in the morning.

But when we visited my paternal grandparents, everything happened on Christmas Eve, including a visit by Santa!  I remember playing with my cousins and being summoned to the door.  There was someone to see us!  It must be Santa!  And in through the door came...my grandmother dressed as Santa.  Clearly in the video you can see my pure admiration for Father, er Mother Christmas, in spite of the fact that she always brought apples and oranges, which held little interest for us kids.  But I do remember a few years later huddling with my cousins post visit with clues that it might not actually be who we thought.  The glasses looked awfully familiar.  And how did Santa get lipstick on his beard?  Is it really Santa?

Not too long after that, I was in the first grade when my classmates completely destroyed my Santa bubble.  They told me that he isn't real.  He's your parents.  I don't remember being disappointed.  I remember thinking that it made much more sense.  I never bought the idea that all the shopping mall Santas were his "helpers."  They seemed far too sweaty for one thing.  One evening, as I was getting tucked into bed, I asked my Mom if Santa was real, since my classmates said he wasn't,  and I explained that I really needed to know the truth.  I think she was more disappointed than I was.  She had just lost her youngest child's pure innocent belief in all things Santa, and that had to be a blow for a mother who loved all things Christmas.  I remember she paused, thinking of what to say.  And then she sat on the bed and told me how important it was to keep the fantasy going for all the other younger kids and the general spirit of Christmas.  I remember processing everything I had known about Santa that night.  All the half eaten cookies, the empty glasses of milk, the presents showing up under the tree and the one magic year that my favorite doll, Princess, showed up late Christmas afternoon in a travel case filled with doll clothes.  It was snowing that year, and I really believed that Santa had dropped it on the way in or out, rushing out to beat the snow. As is Southern tradition, I also assumed he had to hurry to the store to buy milk and bread, as that is what you do when it snows.  But in all likelihood, my parents simply forgot to add it under the tree.

The following years still brought visits by Grandma Santa, as I wasn't quite the youngest grandchild, but the question soon became not so much if it was Santa - we knew it wasn't.  But who was it?  It wasn't our parents.  And somehow, we couldn't quite figure out who was absent from the room whenever Santa was there.  But during a hide and seek game one summer, we stumbled upon the Santa costume hanging in her closet.  And then we knew.  The great mystery of our childhood had been solved.  

Oooooo! Explosions!

Oooooo!, a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

I've waited almost a year for this! Guy Fawkes Day! November 5! In terms of fireworks, it is to the Brits what July 4 is to the Yanks. Anyone can buy them. In fact, they were 2 for 1 at the grocery store.

As in the states, people started "practicing" by setting off bottle rockets a week early. I asked my neighbor, the completely insane Josephine, crazy cat lady and collector of stuff from garbage bins. Jo told me that it's all about that guy who tried to blow up Parliament. And that on Bonfire Night, people make up a fake guy and set it on fire. It's a guy. Named Fox. That's been my favorite explanation so far.

In fact it did start as a remembrance of Guy Fawkes who did try to blow up Parliament a few hundred years ago. But he failed and was tried and executed. So, I suppose it's more of a "what would it have looked like if he did succeed." And so the fireworks.

I decided to join the ever fun Frui group to do a photo excursion to Primrose Hill, near Regents Park, overlooking the city. About 20 of us camped atop the hill and under the guidance of our trusty tutors, started shooting. Of course, I had to forget a very important piece of equipment, I always do. This time it was the tripod. At least it wasn't the memory card, which I ironically often forget. But it made the exercise really difficult to do long exposures with no stabilization. But there was coffee with brandy, red wine, and a lively pub afterward. So, a terrific time all in all.

Everyone kept saying, "where is the fireworks show?" And there was a certain lack of coordination to the explosions. They seemed to be random. Some were in the park, where the lighters-of-the-wicks were quickly escorted out by police, as it is illegal in that park. Some were off on the distant Thames. And everywhere in between. But they were generally n bursts of about 30 seconds. Not the 30 minutes I'm used to from the big US of A shows. And the locals seemed confused as well. Though not down. Every single roman candle brought huge cheers from the drunk crowd. And everyone giggled with delight over kids running with sparklers.

It also made me consider the over emphasis on safety in the US. I don't think it would occur to anyone there to set off a roman candle in a crowded park. But as far as I know, no one lost an eye. Or a couple of fingers. Unlike Guy Fawkes.