Yes, Virginia, There is an Ellis Wilson

In which grownups chew their food far more than necessary

Young Dono with his first Bas-Ket game.

Every once in a while I eat an Oreo cookie that tastes exactly like the first Oreo cookie I ate when I was three years old. I remember that taste. I remember the corner grocery store in Wallace, Indiana and the Sunbeam bread sign on the back wall, the one with the copy “Man does not live by bread alone.” I remember a day, a year or two before I was in kindergarten, when I was setting up green houses and red hotels on the Monopoly board right in front of the register in my bedroom, and I remember my mom correctly predicting that when the furnace came on the blower would blow those houses and hotels all over the place.

But what I don’t remember from that far back is whether or not I ever believed in Santa Claus.

I think maybe I didn’t, because I definitely would have remembered the disillusionment of having that belief shattered. And I think maybe I didn’t because our family tradition had nothing to do with Santa coming down the chimney and leaving presents to be found on Christmas morning.

Our tradition was for most of Mom’s family to gather on Christmas Eve at the house in Russellville where Grandma and her second husband Ellis Wilson lived. We did a gift exchange that night, woke up Christmas morning with no new presents, and had a big Christmas dinner.

There was no fireplace and we didn’t leave out milk and cookies. Our tradition involved Santa coming to the front door on Christmas Eve, which is another reason I think I must not have been a believer. I was aware of the more popular chimney-cookies-flying-around-the-world tradition but don’t remember ever trying to rationalize why Santa would stop in Russellville, Indiana in the middle of his trip.

Here’s what I remember.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Grandma’s house would be jam-packed. Grandma, Ellis, Aunt Florence, Uncle Bill, Aunt Ginny, Doug, Sally, Uncle Lum, Aunt Mary, Sheila, Lisa, Jan, Aunt Mac, Uncle Don, Nancy Sue, Mom, Dad, Ric, me—you don’t have to remember these names but you might find it entertaining to imagine all these people stuffed into a house the size of a very small house.

The Christmas tree was in the front room surrounded by presents, and while the cousins were ready to cut right to the chase and start tearing into them by mid-afternoon, we were bound by decorum and decency to do nothing more than look and wish and speculate. Sometimes we needed a volunteer to gingerly step through the maze of gifts and see whose name was on the big one in the back.

But those afternoon hours dragged on, testing the patience of little kids who didn’t have much of it to start with. We were thrilled when the evening meal was served, not because we were hungry but because that set everything in motion: eat, visit from Santa, open presents. The kids wolfed down our meals and ran to the front room to wait on the grownups, and then when no grownups joined us we returned to the kitchen to see what the holdup was.

The holdup was that these people were actually chewing their food far more than the recommended 32 chews. They were cutting their food into minuscule pieces and chewing each minuscule piece so thoroughly their digestive systems had nothing to do. They would dab at their mouths with a napkin after each bite and then pick up their iced tea and take barely perceptible sips, sips that wouldn’t have dampened the back of one tooth. And in between these tiny bites and dabs and sips they would have conversations about Vietnam and LBJ and how good it felt to be giving their digestive systems the night off.

We returned to the front room. The presents were still there but they all seemed bigger. We opened the floor to a discussion on why the grownups were such slow eaters and clueless people.

But presently we heard a scrape of chairs from the kitchen. They were done eating and it was present-opening time. It was present-opening time, wasn’t it?

Not quite, Grandma said. We have to wash the dishes.

That hardly seemed necessary. Sure, they would need a clean kitchen to prepare the big Christmas dinner tomorrow, but come on, people—priorities. Wash the dishes at midnight if you’re that set on washing dishes.

The dishwashing commenced and we returned to the front room. There they are, we said. The presents. Maybe someday we’ll get to open them. One cousin went to check on the grownups and the report was that it looked like they were practicing for the national dishwashing finals. Seriously, she said, they’re scrubbing every dish, every glass, every fork, every knife, every spoon, every pot and pan, every salad bowl like they’re going up for sale. They’re emptying the salt and pepper shakers and washing them too.

Surely, we asked our spy, someone is assigned to drying the clean dishes and putting them away for maximum efficiency?

My recon, she said, detected no such activity.

The presents were developing sad faces and outstretched arms. Open us, they cried. We assured the presents we wanted to, that we understood their need to bestow joy upon us. Another cousin went to the kitchen and returned saying Grandma had brought in some dishes from the people who lived across the street. Something about the Christmas spirit, she said. Helping your fellow man. Whatever dishes you wash for the least of my brothers—

One of us said gosh darn it or something similar. We looked at the presents with longing and lamented being born into such thoughtless families. Look at that weird-shaped one, one cousin said—that was going to be mine but I doubt if I ever get to open it.

We were so lost in despair we didn’t notice the grownups filing in and finding seats in the front room. “It’s time,” Grandma said. There was much jubilation until I did a quick head count and noticed that Ellis wasn’t there.

“Wait—where’s Grandpa?”

“Oh,” said Grandma. “He’s taking a bath.”

No. No, that didn’t make sense. He knew we were waiting. He knew we were insane with anticipation. How long was this bath going to take?! We ran through the living room and sure enough, there was light shining from the closed bathroom door. Of all the times to take a bath—

But Grandma said that Ellis said to start without him. She said he said he wouldn’t mind.

And that’s when we heard the sleighbells. And the knock at the front door.

Grandma asked if one of us kids wouldn’t mind getting that. One of us did. Probably all of us did. Santa came in saying ho-ho-ho but not much else as he handed each kid a present—almost always the Life Savers gift box. We thanked him and waved as he walked out of sight. The sleighbells rang once more, and those who believed knew Santa was heading off to the world beyond Russellville.

The present-opening commenced, youngest to oldest, and pretty soon Ellis joined us and asked if he’d missed anything.

Only Santa Claus, we said to the man who was wearing, strangely enough, the same clothes he’d had on before his bath.

So, yeah, I don’t know if I ever believed in Santa or not. But I definitely believed in Ellis Wilson.

Free Music Friday

Well, I’ll be darned—I happen to have some Christmas music for you.

By the way, Monday’s newsletter will be moved to Tuesday. Next week we’ll cover integrity in political advertising, 15 albums that influenced my life, and what not to do when the leader of your cult dies. (Hint: Maybe don’t string Christmas lights on the corpse.)