Basket Case

I was three years old, and for the first time I would finally be able to speak in sentences when I went up and sat on Santa’s lap. It was Christmas, 1991, and 1992 was going to be my year. I needed to start the year out strong, and what better way to ensure my future happiness than to be able to tell Santa exactly what I wanted. I spent days thinking about how wonderful Christmas was and I thought about any present that I could ever want.





Before I knew it the day had come to go and visit Santa. So we loaded up the van and headed out to Spring Hill Mall to visit the big man himself. As we entered the crowded mall, I repeated in my head exactly what I wanted to say. We entered the small winter wonderland waiting line.

After what seemed like hours I finally got a glimpse of old Santa Claus in the flesh. He was just like I imagined him. Large, red, white-bearded. Pretty iconic, really. Looking back I’m pretty sure that, given his physical appearance and the demographic, he spent the other 11 months of the year as a truck driver.

When my turn finally came, I was shaking with anxiety, excitment and terror. I approached as some teenage elf helped me on to Santa’s lap. I sat down on the soft, doughy crimson velvet thigh and gazed upwards, past a yellowed beard into the eyes of the holy saint. He opened his mouth and the smell of halls cough drops swept through my sinuses. Then he asked me if I had been good that year.



Had I been good this year? I wasn’t anticipating this question. I was three years old, what can a three-year-old do to lose present privledges? I was shaken and confused. I said yes. The second I said yes, I had been good, I felt like I had lied to Santa, and I felt like he knew it. As I continued to obsess about all the hypothetical things I had done wrong that year Santa asked me the question I was actually prepared for.

What would you like for Christmas?

My mind when blank. Suddenly I couldn’t think of anything, and suddenly nothing mattered. I sat for a second and thought of what I wanted. What mattered on the most fundamental level. What I really wanted. I looked at Santa, wide eyed and said




I could not have been happier with my Christmas wish. How honest, how humble. I looked over at my parents who had been waiting for me at the exit. 




My parents asked if that was really what I wanted for Christmas. I assured them that if that’s not what I really wanted, I wouldn’t have asked Santa. A few days later I awoke on Christmas morning. Eager to see what Santa had left me, I ran to the fireplace.

There was my Fruit Basket, among other presents. I had literally gotten all I had wished for and more. It was a very, Merry Christmas.