I remembered she thought my little sister was a gift from heaven, but that I had the potential to grow horns as I grew older. Let’s just say that the mega old broom-rider and I didn’t play well together.
The gist of the card was that she was looking for Vicki’s new address so she “could send her something nice.” She was so pleased that Sis had made something out of herself. As for me, she was curious if I had finally ended up doing hard time or something equally appalling because there had to be a coherent excuse for me ending up a writer. I sent her the following.
Dear Gertrude,
In the interest of justice, I am forced to remind you that there are usually two sides to each story. There is my sister’s version and the truth.
Obviously you were never informed that when I was in the tender years between 4 and 7, I was known as “Nicky the Nice.” I was well behaved, energetic and, if memory serves, applied for a Social Security card when I turned 4 to help support the family after Vicki arrived. It was tough going, but my dedication to the purpose of helping feed the new arrival never wavered (she drank so much milk, during her first year, that our cows stampeded to Mexico just to find easier work as sandals.)
It was a particularly grueling period for a 4-year-old who also was carrying a full load of preschool courses while attempting to teach advanced moral ethics to a newborn urchin whose only response was “gack.”
We made it through those first years together just fine until she learned to talk. It was then that she started taking great glee in making up stories about me, especially around Christmas when Santa was on the prowl trying to find out who had been naughty or nice.
Once, when I was 11, I secretly commandeered Mom’s panty hose as my “stocking to be hung with care.” Vicki thought I was being a greedy little snot. I frantically explained that I was merely trying to ensure that Santa had somewhere to leave my electric train, since there certainly wouldn’t be room under the tree after he dropped off my bike, BB gun, chemistry set and a complete World War II reenactment collection. She refused to listen and rolled on me to mom, who instantly copped an attitude about her only pair of good hose. So, I ended up with an old pipe tobacco pouch to hang from a doorknob and a lecture about “Sharing with your sibling after the butt welts disappear.”
To this day Sis insists that she did it for the good of humanity. She claims that she weaseled a look at my letter to Santa and saw that the bike I was referring to was a 1200cc Harley, the BB gun was a modified assault weapon and the chemistry set contained enough ingredients to blow up half of the known civilized world.
That, of course, was a lie. I hadn’t asked for any special modification on the weapon and the explosives reserves were merely a backup for the plastic GI’s who were scheduled to invade our neighbor’s garden that I believed to be infested with mutant alien slugs.
To this day, prior to the holidays, Vicki still calls my wife to find out if she’s missing any panty hose. I wish that woman would grow up.
In fact, just the other day I told Santa at the Nutcracker Arts and Crafts Faire that I’ve been getting a raw deal for over a quad of decades and that this year I was going to enlighten him about the real Vicki. He became overwrought and suddenly remembered an appointment in Singapore when I explained that he and I needed some quality lap time. I haven’t seen him since.
I’ll bet you a Klingon torpedo that I won’t get that nuclear carrier again this year.
Anyway, I hope this clears things up, Aunt Gerty.
Regards,
Nicky
P.S. If you decide to send another card, rest assured that you do not have to soak it in garlic again. I have a day job and enjoy the sun.
Nick C. Varney can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com — if he’s not still trying to get Santa to listen to his side of this Christmas tale.
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