Murry Christmas

Even though my father religiously paid his dues to St Sophia's, we never attended church on Christmas Eve or anytime for that matter. Instead our routine was to stay at home with family and friends, have Greek soup, and trim the tree. Dad also had his own private rituals. He would slip into the family room before it got too late to make a few prank phone calls, snickering to himself while he dialed. Once his victims were on the line, he would bellow "HO! HO ! HO!  This is SANTY CLAUS! Pause. "I'm calling FROM the NORTH POLE! Have you been GOOD this YEAR?" Sometimes the child would delightedly answer his question, but more often than not, they would just yell back. "I KNOW THAT'S YOU, PAPOU! You can't fool me!"

"NO IT'S NOT!" he'd yell even louder, as if volume made the difference.  "IT'S SANTY CLAUS !" Then he'd add a few more HO HO HOs to drown out any protest, and roar on about reindeer and the North Pole before hanging up. I loved listening in- especially since he had no qualms about calling kids who were old enough to shave. No matter what age, it was the same treatment. "Hello. Is this Stacey? HO! HO! HO! THIS IS SANTY CLAUS! HAVE YOU BEEN A GOOD BOY?"

"Why yes, I have, George. Could you bring me a fire truck? A real one?"

"HO! HO! HO! George?! George who? THIS IS SANTY CLAUS!!!! MURRY CHRISTMAS!" He'd yell, with his DC accent slipping through.

 On Christmas Day, he would put on a fake white beard and goofy hat, and argue with grandchildren insisting he was not Papou until they finally gave up and went along with the program.

I'm grateful for all the goofy memories I have of my father. He inspired the zany in everyone. For anyone looking for fun this holiday week, JV's, which, by the by, is owned by a very busy Greek woman, is open with live music both on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Murry Christmas, every one.