Diane Freiburger

When I was five, my parents, especially my Dad, kept telling my brother and me that if we weren’t good, Santa Claus would put a stick in our stockings. Some personality traits are established early on - even at five, I was quite stubborn and sure that I knew more than my parents. I did not believe them, and told them there was no way Santa would give me a stick. Christmas morning arrived, and my brother and I excitedly ran for our stockings to see what Santa had brought us. And what did we see peeking out over the tops of our stockings? Sticks! I was so upset, and according to my parents, threw that stick down in disgust. On the other hand, my brother, who was three, was quite excited to receive a stick. He even kept it under his bed as a great toy, probably until my mother eventually threw it back outside. Unfortunately, there are no photos of us with our sticks, very likely because I refused to sit for one with the hated stick. I’m quite sure I had much more respect for Santa after this. I remember walking to school after Christmas, and asking my friends if they had received sticks. I was so surprised that they had not, and I could never figure out why Santa only brought us sticks. Looking back, my Dad now admits he was probably the one who deserved a stick for this stunt, but that somehow doesn’t stop him from laughing about the sight of me flinging that stick down on the fireplace.