Christmas is a wonderful time of year to be a kid. I have few happier childhood memories than Christmas morning. Toys, candy, noise, laughter, food, surprises and a three-hour period when my older siblings were well enough distracted to not beat me up. Heaven.
Even the obligation of an afternoon visit to Snarky Grandma was not enough to take the shine off the day. Snarky Grandma incessantly commented on everybody else’s shortcomings, and she didn’t miss a thing. She would give a full accounting of each of us, citing the numerous debits and paltry credits in her ledger of righteousness. Her subtle yet incendiary verbal devices were a marvel to behold; genius, of a sort. Worst, she always gave us clothes for Christmas.
As compensation, the evening would include a visit with chain-smoking Salty Grandma who stretched credulity with lurid tales that would make the Brothers Grimm shudder. She spent much of her life on her boats, lending credibility to her sailor-like demeanour. From shooting skeet with Clark Gable, to piloting the largest oil tankers in the world, to proofreading an entire edition of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, she had done it all. Best, she knew exactly what kids of all ages want for Christmas: cash.
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