Most kids enjoyed Christmas morning, for sure while they still might believe in Santa Claus and perhaps even after, but I dreaded it. Oh, I loved the smell of Mom's baking coming from the kitchen, the turkey with her delicious stuffing, the pies, the little dainty cakes and cookies. Watching Dad whistling as he worked on the tree lights, seemingly fighting each year to untangle them from the mess of the previous year, like can't he ever learn. My brothers usually bursting from bed and scampering like wild animals towards the tree and the presents piled high underneath. The frenzy began without fanfare. Mom would join Dad on the couch, sipping coffee, and observe with delight as wrapping and ribbons streamed into the air amidst screams of "I wanted just that!" and "Oh, thank you, thank you!"
But I held back. I think my parents always eyed me with a little concern back the, wondering if I was maybe a strange child back then, for I would stand in the doorway, a blank stare on my face, my 14 year old long, lanky frame leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, watching. Mom's eyes occasionally would look my way and I'd read a shred of worry. I'd smile a little to reassure her, but she wasn't fooled. All I saw was the presence, just beyond the living room where all the light and festivities took place. Just beyond lay the darkness. With the arrival of "Her". Breakfast was pastries and coffee or hot chocolate for the young ones and, if we were very good, a sample of the treats intended for the company destined to arrive later in the day. That's when all the goodies were laid out on the family heirloom table built for twelve, and twelve there would be. The best linens, the best plates and cutlery, the best food. And "Her". My parents knew what she did to us, and they didn't care. They seemed to think it was funny, but I didn't. It had been going on since I was four, and the ten years between had done nothing to quell my horror. How could my parents allow it? Why did they not protect me? "She" was Aunt Helen. When I was very young, I didn't understand how beautiful she was, but as I reached my teens, it began to dawn on me. Which made what she did all the worse. Even when I was very young, when she arrived and whirled through the front door like a movie star wrapped in high fashion and the airs of upper class she'd ruffle my hair, which spiked up like a skunk's tail and say "How's it going, Nerdy Boy?" I hated that. I didn't know what a "nerdy boy" was, but I could tell it was someone not normal. Someone different. As soon as I could escape, I'd go back to my room and bury my nose in my chemistry set for comfort. But at some point, I'd have to return, at Mom's insistence, to join the family for dinner, then the after-dinner gift exchange. My stomach roiled like the contents of a boiling cauldron and I longed to analyze the metallic taste in my mouth. But for the time being, I would do my best to smile, or at least not frown, and join in the festivities. After dinner, at some obscure point while the children were amused or distracted with opening yet more gifts and the adults all giggled at us while drinking after-dinner toddies, Aunt Helen would prepare to attack. I had learned to discretely glance to the side without giving away my intent and was always able to notice while she discreetly removed her lipstick from her purse and loaded up her lips. The adults pretended not to notice. This was special lipstick, I was sure, reserved for just these occasions. It was thick, dark red, and plumped her lips to a size beyond affectation. She had to lay it on quite thick to do what she intended, because she'd be using it in multiples. At times, if I watched her sideways, I could see the evil twinkle of delight in her eyes. Sometimes Mom had the same twinkle. Then she would attack! "Give your old Aunt Helen a big smooch!" she'd holler, and spring from the couch like a mountain lion. There was always a moment of shock, even though I knew it was coming, where my feet refused to run and I stood slack-jawed, dropping whatever gift I was holding. Then the slow-motion run would begin. Those lips, those hideous, plumped-beyond-the-bounds-of-normal-human- development lips, red and dripping, coming my way with a pucker. They grew to a size that filled my mind, my eyes, my heart, the void of the universe, and the dread that I could not escape would give me nightmares for weeks. Sometimes I thought I had escaped and she'd get to my brothers first. They giggled with the fun of it and squirmed under her grasp. Robbie's eyes would glaze over as Aunt Helen held him in a firm grip and planted two or three "Christmas kisses" on his buffed cheek. Jeremy, didn't squirm quite as much, but he'd say "Awwww," smile, then run off to the bathroom to wash away the signs of her attack. As for me, I ran with the fear of death, which made capturing me even more fun for her, I bet. When at last she would pin me down, and I was hoarse from screaming, she'd lay one, two, or three of the debasing marks upon my cheek. If I were sufficiently squirming, she might land it on my nose or forehead. But there it would be, amidst howls of laughter from the adults, their drunken faces flushed and teeth bared in wide mouths as they rocked back and forth in their chairs and toasted each other and my aunt. Then, so no one would feel left out, she'd retire to the bathroom, reapply her lipstick and as each adult left, she'd give each of them a demure, yet just as messy, kiss. That was until last Christmas. I'd learned a few things as a nerdy boy. And although I feared saying "no" and making a scene, I'd learned how to say "no" in other ways. So last Christmas I was the first. I let her catch me and plant her kisses. I didn't even fight. She gave me a puzzled look that showed disappointment, though she tried to act as though it was fun, for the other adults. Then, as she went on to my brothers , I slipped from the room with her purse. After extracting her lipstick and dipping it in a solution from my chemistry set, I returned the lipstick and purse to the living room, where she was just finishing up with Jeremy. Later, as the adults left, she gave each of them a Christmas kiss. And, later that night, each of them died. The only thing I regretted was that the lipstick she had previously applied was so thick it prevented the poison from reaching her own skin, so she lived on, to terrorize other children, no doubt.
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AuthorAfter many years of coaching at various levels and with different teams, I thought I would share some of my experiences and thoughts about coaching. Archives
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