I came to my parent’s house in style yesterday on a 37-seater plane.
The surprise came later in the evening when my dad returned home with the pizza (oh Mrs. B…I missed you). Apparently, in the four months since I have seen my family, no one thought THIS was worth mentioning:
My father has become Santa Claus. First I was speechless (but that never lasts long for me). He should have done it when we were younger, when we could have fully appreciated it. He reminded me that, at that time, he would have been growing a ginger beard and Santa ain’t got no ginger beard. My next thought was fiscal difficulties: Dad, are you and mom hard up for cash? Are you making extra money as a local St. Nick at the mall? Again, not an issue. The beard is not a money-maker for him. I told him he belonged on a Harley. He agreed.
He has experimented follically before. Maybe it is because he can’t grow the stuff on the top of his head. A few years ago he went with the Colonel Sanders and was never phased by the (fairly constant) harassing at work and good-natured teasing at home. He just doesn’t care what other people think (go dad!). In fact, I think he likes having others notice and comment on his beard. He relayed a story from earlier in the week: he went to Canadian Tire (the Canadian hang out) and ran into a friend with his two little grandchildren. Of course, they stared at my father so he replied with a hearty “Ho Ho Ho!”. The grandpa chimed in with “Look! It’s Santa Claus!”.
My father proceeded to chuckle with a twinkle in his eye as he recounted how one hid behind his gramps and it took about 5 minutes of staring for the other to determine that he was not, in fact, the Jolly Old St. Nick.
Oh my family…..