Merry Christmas, Jack Cameron

Maggie, age 8.

A Letter to Santa Claus :

Dear Santa Claus,
I have been as good as I can be.

I would like for you to hang this picture in your house.

Don’t be mad if I do bad.

<----- I’m Santa’s BRID.

From Maggie Cameron
p.s. writ back [editor's note: this typo is intentional]
[address redacted]

<----- I am Maggie’s cat Bpersy. [editor's note: this typo is also intentional. the cat's name was Percy.]

<----- And this is me, Maggie Cameron.

Dear Maggie,

I just received a letter from Santa and he said he had a letter from you with a picture of a big bird. He wanted to know if this is what you looked like. I wrote back and said that you were a bird alright but looked like a nice little girl and not a “big bird.”
He wasn’t sure, but thought he might by-pass Louisville this year because of his heavy workload. I imagine this would be okay if it’s okay with you. I think his real problem is that his reindeer are getting lazy and don’t cover as many cities as they should. Maybe old Santa himself is drinking too much cranberry sauce.
However I will be looking forward to your visit. This time I plan to beat you at “Old Maid” blindfolded.

Love,

Grandfather

A Harmless Prank

When I was 8 years old I still believed in Santa Claus. However, at this old age, the art of retrieving presents from this unknown benefactor became a battle of wits, a game of strategy, the ultimate chess game. I had a “when the ref isn’t looking” approach to my youthful mischief and would often find myself checking around for any watchful eyes before engaging in shenanigans.

In the days leading up to Christmas Eve, I became a complete nightmare to endure. I shouted at my Grandmother concerning the dwindling milk supply. I shooed my cousins from the kitchen as I attempted to get double chip cookies "just right." I tenderly peeled carrots for the reindeer.

Morning finally arrived and I threw off my covers and hit the ground running in my red footie pajamas.
I halted to a dead stop upon entering the living room.

A small, single square of red felt was wedged into the closed fireplace screen.

I filled the house with a glass-shattering shriek.

It took every member of my family to talk me out of my room. Convinced that Santa Claus had been maimed on our property and would therefore not be returning any subsequent years, I had begun shouting denouncements of my family to anyone that would listen.

My Grandfather Jack Cameron, being unable to ascend the stairs personally, had eventually called to me from the lower landing. “Maggie! Stop that racket and get down here!”

Tears and tantrums had little affect on Grandfather. I wiped the moisture from my eyes, straightened myself up and calmly opened my door.

“Yes, Grandfather?” I said, in the most innocent voice I could muster.

“Will you stop shouting and get back down here. I put the damn felt in the fireplace.” He said in a huff. “Damn kids, can’t joke a joke, Why I….” I heard him muttering as he wandered back into the living room in search of his trusty armchair.