Part 2, Christmas: A Child’s Way of Knowing Who’s the Favorite

I have a myriad of wonderful memories of Christmas as a child. There were hundreds of joyous moments from driving around Christmas light watching with our dad, to the varied antics of the Pryzgoda family. This part of the story is not about any of that! This part is about the gifts my sister got that I envied.

That’s not to say that I didn’t get some amazing gifts from Santa. Oh, that’s right. I never mentioned how Christmas presents work in our family. We actually always celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve. This way, those with significant others could spend Christmas Day with their spouse’s family. In the case of Sam and me, we spent Christmas Eve with the Pryzgodas and then Christmas day with the Clelands.

So on Christmas Eve, right about the time dessert was ready, everyone would come to our large living room and sit around laughing and opening presents from one another. Now this was all well and good, but Sam and I both knew that the BEST presents came from Santa. Santa was the one that got us the bikes, the rollerblades, the Xbox (even though by that point we knew no big, red guy was toting around a bag of Christmas gifts). It was tradition, though. Family got us cool stuff and clothes. Santa got us the awesome stuff that we’d been wanting all year.

I’ve been amazed and grateful to our mom since I found out there was no Santa Claus. To think that every year she was able to find the ONE thing that both my sister and I wanted SO bad, and then not even take credit for it when we started screaming with joy on Christmas morning? That is some dedication and every parent deserves to be appreciated for letting their child hang onto that magic for as long as they can.

I’m getting distracted though. This story is supposed to be about envy! Not warm and cozy feelings!

So onto the envy. This particular year, envy came in the form of a full sized, McDonald’s play-kit with built in drive thru and fake French fries that really crackled when you put them in their plastic fryer. It was amazing. Beautiful, even. Sam and I had come hurrying downstairs this particular Christmas and there, smack-dab in the middle of the living room, was the coolest thing we’d ever seen along with a giant red bow and a note from Santa. “For, Samantha. From, Santa.”

Fuck, Samantha. Fuck, Santa. At least I imagine that’s what I would have thought if I had known how to appropriately use the F-word at that time.

I stood in shock, Sam started screaming for joy and ran towards it. I honestly don’t remember what I got that Christmas from Santa. I am certain it was amazing and exactly what I wanted, but whatever it was it paled so much in comparison to Sam’s gift, it has been completely wiped from my memory.

Let’s be clear here. I was way too old to be playing with this toy, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t want it to be mine with every part of my being. I watched Sam longingly as she set everything up and put on her little apron and McDonald’s visor that even had a plastic headset built in for “drive-thru orders.” Grandma was up cooking eggs at the time so the flock of our family members had begun groggily wandering downstairs like extras in Night of the Living Dead to get their morning cup of coffee.

Every single one of them stopped to observe Samantha in the middle of the living room cooking fake French fries. Our mom eventually made it downstairs and sat on the couch to smile and absorb the joy of Christmas emanating from her daughters. It was soon after that Aunt Kathy and Laura came in too. Laura scooched across the carpet on her knees and “pulled up” to the plastic drive-thru window to give Samantha her first order while Kathy sat in one of the easy chairs near Mom.

Kathy had a grin on her face and she idly glanced over to our mom, “I’m glad to see Santa is preparing her for her future.” My mom just gave Kathy a look and Aunt Laura burst into laughter and so did I. That was the first time I’d ever understood sarcasm and after hearing that comment from our wonderfully cynical aunt, I felt better. Thanks, Santa!

The Man with the Golden Sugar Cone

As brash as our grandfather could be, and contrary to his outward appearance, Grandpa was one of the most gentle and kind men I have ever met. We lived in a very loud household, which probably was also why Grandpa always had headaches. Our grandmother, mother, Sam and I did not help. Between the four of us, we argued a lot. Though, whenever there was a blow out of yelling, no matter who was involved, you could bet that about fifteen minutes after everyone had calmed down Grandpa would sneak upstairs with his car keys in hand.

He would lean into our rooms (which we’d usually been banished to) and whisper in his deep, gruff voice, “I heard they have a new flavor of ice cream at Thrifty’s. Get your shoes.” And while we always knew there was no new flavor of ice cream, we’d hurry to grab our shoes and quietly creep down the stairs like we were super spies out of a James Bond movie.

He’d hold up the act of secrecy until we were in the car and on the road. Once in the car, usually only Sam would keep up conversation. She’d hum something to herself or tell Grandpa and me a story as he and I stayed quiet with a small smile on our lips in anticipation of the impending ice cream.

When we got there, it was always the same. Grandpa got two scoops of Rocky Road, Sam got a sugar cone of Mint Chip and I got one scoop of Rocky Road. Then we’d pile back into the car with our bounty and Sam still singing in the background . She really never stopped. She’d just keep going and going and going, but on super-secret ice cream trips it was hard to get irritated with her.

Grandpa would always drive around until we’d finished our ice cream so we could dump the evidence before we got home, so we spent a lot of time in the car as he and I both took forever to eat and Sam would have inhaled hers well before we had even made a dent into our icy mounds of chocolate and marshmallows.

After getting rid of empty cups, we’d usually run into a gas station bathroom to rinse off any remaining stickiness. In the early years of doing this, that part of the trip tended to take a little bit longer as Sam had a way of getting ice cream pretty much everywhere. There was even a trip that we had to stop and buy her a new shirt as she’d dropped an entire scoop down her front.

Once we were all cleaned up, we’d head home. This was one of the rare times Sam was quiet when she wasn’t sick. She knew as well as I did that we now had the challenge of creeping back upstairs and into our rooms without being discovered. Of course, now I know Mom and Grandma knew about these trips every time we went, but at the time Grandpa kept us under the belief that this was secret and special. So, we’d creep back inside and slowly crawl our ways back up the stairs and down the hall until slithering back into our respective rooms, pretending like no adventure had ever been had and not daring to even speak to our mother until we were sure the scent of chocolate was no longer on our breath.

Prologue

July 21^st, 2011 – A Text Message Conversation with Samantha

“sam:  did i tell you i started crying the other night because i thought andrew ran over a frog?

i was so upset

me:  I'm writing a book about you.

sam:  uhm.

what?

me:  Just giving you a heads up. ^^

sam:  why

i mean, im flattered?

im confused too, though.

 me:  Because I love you and you're amazing.

I was talking with someone about writing and that I was having trouble getting started.

He just said, "Write what you love."

sam:  i miss y ou

me:  So I started Fukong: The Tragic Life of Samantha Cleland

Don't worry, it's not tragic.

sam:  i just had a nightmare like, an hour ago you that you didn't want to be my sister anymore

me:  I miss you too.

You're so weird.

sam:  i know.

me:  That shit's going in the book, by the way.”

So, my dreams of publishing a book started to wan when I began researching just what it would take to get legitimately published. Instead of a book, I decided to simplify. A blog! I can be a blogger, right? I can make this happen.

Anyway, my sister is a brilliant individual. She is funny, creative and engaging in her own way. So why is her life tragic? She has the worst luck of anyone I have ever met. Not only does she have terrible luck, but she’s a wonderful storyteller. Every flat tire or mundane day is an epic tale of adventure, mystery and tragedy. She makes the miniscule magical.

This story isn’t entirely about the craziness of her life, though. As a bystander, I’ve been able to see and embrace a myriad of elements about Samantha. How she deals with situations is some of the most interesting social dissections I’ve been able to personally experience. Whenever a new story comes up or a new Facebook post of “My cat just ate a $600 snake. Fuck my life,” our group of friends all smile and share a giggle… because these types of things only happen to Sam.

The pages that follow may not be entirely true to life. Some stories have been told so many times that they have changed over the years into amoebas of fiction. But to every bit of fiction there is always a bit of truth. That’s something Samantha has always embraced.

There have been times that I have looked at my sister after one of her comical stories and said flatly, “Samantha Leigh Cleland, that is a bunch of bullshit.” And she just giggles and replies with, “No, really!”

I want to tell the stories of my sister’s life the way she would tell them, but it also involves portions of my life as well. Of course, this is from my recollection so like mentioned earlier even in this retelling the facts may not all be there, but the spirit of the story remains intact. I can already hear the protests of my family in my head, “That’s not how it happened!” To me, these stories have made me who I am in the way I remember them. If they want to tell it the way they remember, they can write their own blog!

So, here’s to you, Sam. May your days continue to be filled with fantastical and whimsy adventures. I look forward to every new story you will tell me between giggles and mock exasperation in the future and I hope you don't murder me for sharing with the world all the dumb little moments in our lives.