Cussin' Santa

Looking back, it was like there were two different families who celebrated Christmas in our house. The first group grew up in the 1950's and early 60's and had a dad who was a lean, hard working young guy. The group who grew up in the later 60's and 70's, had a father who was a fat old guy, who not only worked hard, but belonged to various clubs, probably as a way to get out of a house crawling with kids. No, my mom didn't divorce the skinny young one, and marry the old man, they were both the same guy.

One thing that carried through during all those Christmases was that my dad swore a lot. Whether the skinny young dude, or the fat old man, Christmas meant my dad would at some point get frustrated, and break out into a really decent string of profanity. I've even heard of him being referred to by some of the younger ones, as the Cussin' Santa. Sometimes it would be so bad I feared that a major blood vessel would burst out of his forehead like an out of control fire hose. I am totally sympathetic to my dad's plight back then. He had a lot of responsibility, and quite often we acted like he was some intruder into our lives whose only purpose was to pay the bills, and make sure Christmas happened. I have it easy. I only have Mark to piss me off, and he pretty much gets me into a cussing frenzy once a day during December. I can't imagine being dad to a bunch of selfish little kids, I couldn't do it.

Dad isn't with us any more, but as bad as the yelling and cursing was on some occasions, the truth is that I'd love be able to spend another Christmas with him, just to hear that Cussin' Santa again.