Partly Cloudy and 91° F

One of my favorite memories of childhood Christmases is one I've written about before. It's about our Christmas Coconut. I thought I'd share the story again for those who haven't heard it.

My grandmother kept her Christmas ornaments and figurines in a little closet underneath the stairs in the front hallway of her house. She had a bea.jpgul collection of Victorian ornaments. I was especially fond of a figurine of a little country church with stained glass windows and a light inside that made the colorful windows shine.

My brother Taylor and I weren't allowed to bother the decorations, so when Nanny and Mama pulled them out at Christmas, we were suppose to admire from a distance and not touch them.

That kind of self-control was very difficult for me and downright impossible for Taylor, who is four years younger than me. Every Christmas, Taylor would end up breaking one or more of the ornaments and figurines and get a whipping. Mama was at her wit's end about how to keep the destructive toddler away from the Christmas tree, where they were displayed.

Being the mischievous big sister, I lived to taunt my brother. Once when my grandmother purchased a fresh coconut from the store to make a cake, Taylor saw it in the kitchen and wanted to know what it was. I convinced him the coconut was a shrunken head, and he was horrified. At first, Mama frowned on my chasing a screaming Taylor around the house shaking the coconut at him. Then, she had a brilliant idea.

The next Christmas, Mama placed a fresh coconut under our Christmas tree, and Taylor wouldn't go near it, assuring the ornaments remained intact from then on.

The tradition of placing a coconut under the Christmas tree continued in my family until my parents passed away. Even after Taylor and I grew up and left home, we'd return at the holidays to find a coconut perched under the tree.

When it came to Yuletide fears, I wasn't immune either. I was deathly afraid of Santa Claus. While most kids were ready to immediately crawl into his lap and spill their guts to the old man, whenever I saw him, I would run in the opposite direction.

My grandfather, who was a fun-loving soul, decided the best way to help me overcome my Santa phobia was to bring the old guy to the house to talk to me. One afternoon I was watching TV in the living room and heard someone come in the back door yelling "Ho! Ho! Ho!"

I thought it was Ga-Ga cutting up and ran excitedly into the kitchen to greet him. I adored my grandfather. He always had a twinkle in his eye and did everything he could to make me happy.

The sight of Santa standing in the middle of our kitchen stopped me dead in my tracks. Before he could belt out another round of "Ho, Ho, Ho's," I flew out of the kitchen and dove behind the sofa in the living room. Despite some intense coaxing from Ga-Ga and Santa, I refused to come out, and my dejected grandfather took Santa away -- back to the North Pole, I supposed.

Ga-Ga never brought Santa home again, but that was okay.

I had my own resident Santa Claus.

T&D Region Editor Carol Barker can be reached by e-mail at cbarker@timesanddemocrat.com or by phone at 803-533-5525. Discuss this and other stories online at TheTandD.com.

You must be logged in to comment.