St. Nick

IMPORTANT LETTER FROM ELBA ANNOUNCEMENT:  I am taking Thursday, December 26 off, you guys.  Let’s just call it a mini Christmas vacay.  (Or I’m celebrating Boxing Day.  Or Kwanzaa.)   In any case, I’ll see you all back here next Sunday, December 29.  Thanks.  Now read on…

I didn’t name my son “Nicholas” after the Greek/Turkish patron saint who has evolved over the centuries into Santa Claus.  But I should have.

I gave him that name because I loved it.  In all its forms.  Nicky, Nick, Nicholas- I loved them all.  Each version brought to mind something wonderful.

“Nicky?”  Well, if we were playing a word association game, my first thought honestly would have to be Funny Girl.  “Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein, what a beautiful, beautiful name…  (And he was.  Omar Sharif?  Gorgeous back then.)

Sad But True Sidebar:  Nick has NO idea that he is the namesake of a character in a Barbra Streisand movie.  And I know that he would be very bummed if he ever found out.

But since he never reads me (except on special occasions like Mother’s Day and/or my birthday, when I play the guilt card and he kind of has to do it) I’m completely safe in continuing on with this true confession.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not, as he belabors to tell me, that he doesn’t like what I write or he thinks I’m a no-talent moron.  It’s just that he’s SOOOOO busy.

“Do you know how many emails I get a day, Dude?” he asks me disgustedly whenever I query him on the subject.  “Hundreds.  And they’re all WAY more important than you.  I’ll read it when it’s a book.”

Sigh.  Oh, well.  As the saying goes,”No man is a hero to his own valet.”

But I also loved the name “Nick.”  That’s a no-brainer.  Handsome, urbane Nick Charles in The Thin Man.  (Which is very convenient and euphonious as my son’s middle name happens to be Charles.)

As far as the “Nicholas” part is concerned, no one has ever called him that.  But the “N” dovetailed nicely with his older sister’s “N.” (for Natasha)

As a long-time dog owner and horse fancier, I’ve intently studied many a pedigree.  And I firmly believe in the doctrine that bestows all offspring of one generation with the same first initial.  (Thus pre-dating and one-upping Kris Kardashian Jenner by a couple of years.)

But if I never meant for him to be christened after the patron saint of children, archers, sailors, coopers and fishermen who became beloved St. Nick, it happened anyway.

Nick and Christmas are a perfect match.

From the time he eagerly crawled toward his very first Christmas’s toy train, Nick loved gift-getting- and giving.

And he was good at it.

Okay, there were a few glitches.  Like that one year when he was about ten and he didn’t have any money left come Yuletide.  The reason for this was simple.  In his fervor to gift a would-be little girlfriend with a stuffed animal, he made the deadly mistake of borrowing twenty bucks from his sister.

Bad idea.  Her usuriously-high, extortionate interest rates kept him broke and at her mercy for six months until I found about it.

I uncovered this little Shylock operation on Christmas morning when we unwrapped our presents from Nicky. Instead of shiny-new items from Charles Variety or Marshall Field’s, they were old and crappy- a dusty, autographed picture of Joe Theissman that my brother had once given him, a beat-up, ancient Matchbox car he didn’t like any more. Nonsense like that.

All pre-owned and now re-gifted.

“Hey, what’s up with this?  This is YOUR old junk.  Didn’t we give you plenty of money throughout the year to buy new gifts for your loved ones?  Or couldn’t you at least have made us something? This isn’t exactly the true spirit of Christmas, Nick,” I sadly reminded him.

He shrugged sheepishly, and little by little, the whole Godfather saga came out about the imprudent loan and Natasha’s lethal interest-compounded-daily vig.

The RICO Act took care of Don Natasha.  She never dared charge her brother interest again.  And the very next day-  once some spending money had been liberated from his father’s wallet- Nicky was off like a shot on his bike- winter or no- to buy us all presents.

Nick was gifted at gift-giving.

He had just the right amount of imagination, empathy, and generosity that guaranteed that his recipients would love his neat presents.

And he LOVED shopping.  Always did.  From the time he was a tyke, he would sit in front of the television set and scream, “I want that!” at EVERY commercial.  Including the ones for Tampax and Afro Sheen.

(Personally, I hate to shop. It’s a waste of time.  But I do like the thought process that giving good presents involves.  Thinking up a killer gift that someone will adore?  That’s the fun part.)

But Nick was always the designated family shopper, and needed no encouragement to gladly dash off to the Snowmass Mall to buy pajamas with lobsters on them for his sister, or enroll his father in “The Beer Of The Month” Club.

And he’s a grateful gift-getter, too.  There’s something about a newly-minted, fresh, unopened package that gets his adrenaline going.

In his thirty-three Christmases, I’ve only seen him disappointed once.  We were spending our holiday in Aspen that year and he kept bugging me.

“I want that Paradise Bakery Christmas tee shirt, Dude.  I really want that one.  You know.  It’s the new green and red holiday one.  The one the employees are wearing now. Ask your friend, Kenny, the manager, Dude.  Just ask him if you can buy one.  Please, Dude.”

I had no idea why Nick wanted this tee shirt.  It had an elf in a Santa hat on it, and at that time Nick’s taste ran much more towards menacing skulls on a field of gloomy black.

But he was so persistent that I made my way to the bakery and sought out Kenny.

“Gee, Ellen, I don’t know if I have any shirts left.  I only ordered them for my employees.  But I’ll see if I can dig up one for you.”

But a couple of days later, when I came in to buy my usual pre-ski muffin and hot chocolate, he handed me a package.

“Oh, Kenny, that’s great!  How much do I owe you?” I was thrilled.  Nick’s Christmas wish was being fulfilled.

“Nothing, Ellen.  You’re a good customer.  It’s Paradise Bakery’s gift to you.  Merry Christmas,” he said.

I was elated at my score.  And I couldn’t wait to see Nick’s face when he opened it.

And when he did, I wasn’t disappointed.  He was beaming.

“Heh, heh, heh,” he chuckled Beavisishly.  “I love it.  Thanks, Dude.  It says ‘Satan’s Helper.'”

OMG

“That’s ‘SANTA’S Helper,’ you moron!” I exclaimed.  “Not ‘Satan.’  Santa.”

Well, that was many Christmases ago.   This year I got him an awesome back pack suitable for back-country snowboarding.

I hope he likes it.  (No fear this post ruining the element of surprise.  See above.)

And I hope that you all have a wonderful Christmas.

And thanks for reading me today.

Your support is MY best gift.

See you on the 29th, guys.

Consider yourselves all under my mistletoe.