A Christmas Tragedy

While we all enjoy the warm memories that the Christmas season inevitably produces, I'd like to call everyone's attention to a not-so-sweet memory that was born out of greed and selfishness one gloomy Christmas morn.

As is tradition in the Olsen household, the children of the house were quarantined either up or downstairs on Christmas Eve to prevent any interference with Santa Claus and his help. That evening produced little sleep and probably unhealthy amounts of anxiety for us kids as we prepared for what would undoubtedly be the greatest day of the year. We would play board games, harass the few party-poopers who were pretending to be asleep, and watch the clock with desperation as the moment of redemption - the Christmas present rush - crept slowly closer.

After literally hours of waiting, mom and dad finally woke up (they were such slackers on Christmas morning). Dad would set up the video camera, mom would ready the Christmas music (usually John Denver and the Muppets), and the grandparents would sit comfortably on the couch, never complaining about having to accommodate our ridiculously early morning schedule. We children would line up at the top (or bottom) of the stairs in order of age, the youngest being at the front of the line. We were literally shaking with anxiety. Christmas had finally come, and after 11 months and 29 days and 23 hours of waiting, we were on the brink of imploding.

Now, I was always a cool-headed fellow about these things. Cool-hand Jack, that's what they used to call me. But my siblings were a gaggle of uncontrollable Christmas zealots. On this particular Christmas morning, I remember Clay was especially eratic. As my mother yelled "GO!" I immediately felt the push of five older and stronger siblings at my back, all surging with adrenaline and hopped up on eggnog and the candy they had snuck from their gingerbread houses. While Clay foamed at the mouth, practically speaking in tongues, I tried with all the strength I could muster to prevent this hoard from consuming my poor younger sister who was at the edge of the stairs. But alas, my strength was insufficient, and I gave way to the running of the bulls. This in turn knocked my poor sister from her feet, causing her to tumble down the length of those unforgiving wooden stairs. The antique iron set that lined those stairs didn't help any as she fell like a ragdoll onto the hard floor of the entryway. As her brutal descent came to an end, I rushed to her, and cradling her head in my arms, cried out, "Why?! Gods of Christmas, whyyyyy?!"

Her fall was a tragic one, but perhaps the biggest tragedy of the day is that I - yes, Cool-hand Jack - was blamed for her bruises. My heart was already torn from my chest at the sight of my dear sister being victimized by the insanity of my siblings. And then, by placing fault on my head, my family stamped on my barely beating heart.

It was a dark cloud in the history books of Christmas, and from henceforth, we shall never speak of it again.