A Christmas Story
David K. Chatt

Each December during my growing up years, my parents would plan a family trip to Seattle. We lived in Sedro Woolley, which meant about 90 minutes each way in the Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser. We looked forward to seeing the Christmas displays, the shopping, and of course, the annual visit with Santa. In anticipation of the pictures that would be taken we would be freshly shorn and don our gayest of apparel. There were eight of us so planing for such an outing was no small task. This particular year, 1968 for one reason or another seemed a bit frenzied. My mother, who was always impeccable, remembers feeling harried and like she wasn't quite put together as well as she would have liked. Thinking that she would blend into the hoards of holiday shoppers she decided let herself go out the door anyway, and off we went.

The Miracle of the Vista Cruiser was that it had room for all of us and some to spare. Mom and Dad shared the front seat and the rest of us were two each in the remaining three, two in the middle, two in the back and two in the way back. The way back seat was the least desirable. It was small and it faced the opposite direction from the rest. I, being second to the youngest, was usually relegated to the way back with my little brother. On long car trips I would immediately look for an opportunity to misbehave. If you were naughty, and I was, you would soon find yourself occupying the middle of the front seat. If you could get over being scolded and sitting next to a mother who was disappointed in you for "ruining our nice time", and I mostly could, the front seat was a much better place to be.

So, on December something, nineteen hundred and sixty eight Orville and Pat Chatt feeling slightly eschew corralled Beth, Julie, Mark, Scott, David, and Jay and headed out on there annual holiday spree. It was a cold and rainy day but never mind we got to Seattle in time to go have a big lunch then split up. My sisters, being teen-agers, were allowed to go off on their own. My middle brothers took off with Dad. Jay and I stayed with Mom who would take us to see Santa.

Every one knows that the real Santa occupied the corner window of Frederick and Nelson's. That's the way it always was and we were pretty sure that was the way it always would be. My folks estimated about how long it would take us to get through the line and agreed that we would all meet back at that corner in time to witness our visit with the big elf. With that, we and our lunch filled bellies took our place in the long line that promised the rest of the clan plenty of time to pursue their chosen activities.

I was eight years old and it seemed like we were standing in that cold rainy line for-ever. Eight-year-olds don't generally have a lot of patience anyway and time does drag on especially when there is a much-anticipated event waiting on the other side. The whole month of December for an eight-year-old passes at a particularly labored pace. My memory tells me that we stood in that line for about 14 hours. If I remember it as being a challenging exercise I have to think that it was not much fun for my mother either. Waiting in a long line for just about anything with a 6 and an 8-year-old is not fun and especially not fun if you are cold and wet and not looking your best. In spite of all this we finally made it up the ramp into Santa's chamber. We shared this space with Santa, a dozen or so other children who were just ahead of us in line and a couple of very young women in very short, red velvet mini skirts. It was there job to help manage the kids as we waited. They were obviously overwhelmed by the impossibility of the task. They had the look of something that had been used up and cast aside. They offered no help. My mom's nerves had started to show signs of wear about half way through the line and standing in Frederick and Nelson's corner window in the company of frantic pre-teens wasn't helping. The word pandemonium comes to mind when I think of the activity in that room. I remember being fascinated by the activity and kind of interested in the fact that we were standing inside of a display window and were surrounded by a ready audience. Yes, I remember being interested in that fact but I swear what was to follow was completely involuntary. In spite of all of the interesting things that were visiting my young life the thing I most remember was the oppressive steamy heat that comes from too many wet people standing in too little space breathing not enough air.

I stood there looking out the window. My sister's faces had joined the throngs of people who were squeezing together trying to find the best place to view the magic Christmas moment when their young relations would experience the miracle of Santa. I started to be aware of an unpleasant tickle sensation in my 8-year-old tummy and informed my mother that something wasn't quite right. My mom is a great mom and I don't want to give the impression that she wasn't, but we all have a destination called the end of our rope and by this time, Mom was just about one knot this side of it. She was feeling conspicuous which she would have hated had she looked her best, but she was feeling conspicuous and frumpy which is a combination akin to candy canes and tuna fish. She was tired and cross and just wanted to get the next few moments over with so that she could get on with her day and get out of that window. There was just no room left on her radar screen for a funny tummy. She tried to get me to buck-up but as my warnings became more insistent she finally relented and told me to go sit on a little red velvet chair that was off to the side and afforded me a full view of all that was going on. I sat there for a moment and watched my mom and brother inch forward in the last bits of the line. I looked at all the people who had there hot little faces pressed to the window. I watched all of their expressions change as the contents of my wee little tummy defied gravity and came spouting out of the front of me. I watched as the last knot slipped though my Mom's fingers. She tried unsuccessfully to get my sisters in there to watch my little brother so that she could take me and clean me up. They were of an age when they were embarrassed about absolutely everything and were not about to climb in that window and claim affiliation with their barf-laden brother. Waving her arms wildly, she made the universal "come here" motion. They replied with the equally ubiquitous "no way" shaking of the head. Just then my father and two brothers came back and witnessed the drama that was unfolding. Instead of being a help to my mom he and my brothers led a chorus of laughter that seemed spring from a bottomless well. It was the kind of laughter that no matter how inappropriate or untimely demands your full and undivided attention. I am sorry to say that my mother was not immediately able to drink from this well. She did somehow manage to make some arrangements for my brother's care and get directions to the nearest restroom. The nearest restroom was not near at all. She took me by the arm and humorlessly escorted me to the ladies room. I remember sort of leaning over as I was being dragged along not wanting the last remnants of tainted drool to fall on my already saturated self. I know that my mom had plenty to say as we dodged horrified shoppers and made our way across acres of retail but all I can really remember is being told not to think that I could do this every time we came to Seattle just to get new clothes.

By the time we loaded the Vista Cruiser for our trip home I had a new outfit and Mom had been reintroduced to her humor. I don't remember what we bought that day, I don't remember the Christmas displays or the lights. What I do remember is being escorted to the front of the line when returned to the Santa window, and I remember sharing in a great big familial laugh all the way back to Sedro Woolley. The day that David threw up in Frederick and Nelson's Santa window from that moment forward became one of the Chatt family's most treasured chestnuts.