Charlie Peterson and the Christmas Village
It took years to configure my Christmas village. Every house and fir tree and miniature character was precious to me, and I could hardly wait to arrange the entire little community over the top of our entertainment center every Yuletide.
But I wasn't stupid. Christmas villages were really just grownup versions of doll houses for women like me sharing houses with husbands and sons who agonized over NFL teams and peed on toilets.
We deserved something, too.
My Christmas village boasted a towering lit Cathedral - which didn't necessarily blend well with the cozy antique shop or the quaint corner grocer - but nevertheless filled me with delight. A couple staring dreamily at each other over steaming mugs of coffee shadowed the window of the local restaurant, and all throughout the village were busy shoppers, children on sleds, and romantic skaters drifting arm in arm around the frozen pond.
Life was perfect in the Christmas village. If only for a little while, I'd shrug off my job, dishes in the sink, and mounds of laundry to gaze in wonder and enter its magical perfection.
But I don't have the Christmas village anymore. The subversive males in my family saw to that.
It really started with my brother-in-law Cliff who visited for Christmas one year. My son Tommy is almost an exact replica of Cliff. In fact, all the Howard men - my husband, his brothers and both my sons - possess an uncanny gift of cynicism. Uncomfortably, I observed Cliff rocking back and forth on his heels taking in every aspect of the Christmas village.
"Hmm," he said.
Here's the thing about "hmm". Coming from a male of the Howard species, it always precedes a vile and nasty comment specifically designed to cut you down to size.
"Hmm," my husband John murmured once after I broke a tooth and swore at the tootsie pop still in my mouth. "If only there was a way you could prevent that sort of thing."
So now, when Cliff cast his cynical gaze over my Christmas village, I bristled.
"Don't say it," I warned. "Whatever you're about to say, just don't."
Cliff smothered a laugh. "No," he said innocently. "I was only about to say that this little guy," and he pointed to the miniature character in the brown overcoat who gesticulated wildly, "reminds me of a neighbor from back home."
The Howards, who all grew up in a small Colorado farming community, love to describe the colorful local legends of their youth.
"Who?" I asked warily.
"Charlie Peterson," Cliff cheerfully replied. "The town sex offender."
Our teenage sons enjoyed this immensely.
"Oh don't worry," Cliff reassured me hastily. "He's been in jail for a long time now."
I stared at the miniature man in his brown overcoat - except that now the overcoat seemed an object of horror.
Later, when no one was looking, I moved little Charlie Peterson away from the young woman he leaned toward in cheerful animation to an obscure spot beside the train depot. The next day, however, Charlie Peterson stood directly front and center staring pointedly at the backside of a middle-aged female villager.
Kenny, I seethed.
My 16-year-old son had made up his mind to torture me. Calmly I moved Charlie Peterson to his post by the train depot and never said a word.
That same evening, Charlie had planted himself high atop the roof of the restaurant seeming to evaluate his hopeful prospects among all the villagers down below. Once again I moved him.
The next time I saw him, he was arguing passionately with a light pole.
It was a game, and I was determined not to let my wicked boy win. Kenny wouldn't mess with Charlie Peterson again for the simple reason that I tossed the small over-coated man into the trash. I could do without the little pervert. He was ruining my Christmas village.
I should not have underestimated Kenny, however. The boy has eyes in the back of his head.
Before leaving for school on Monday, I happened to glance at the Christmas village. Something was terribly awry. The fifty or so miniature characters formed a huge circle in the middle of the village. Was it my imagination, or did they seem to be cheering?
Upon closer inspection, I discovered Charlie Peterson in the middle of the villagers lying flat on his back, his extended arms still gesticulating wildly.
On top of Charlie was a giant white object almost engulfing him.
It was the sweet lamb from my Nativity scene.
The lamb from my Nativity scene was mounting Charlie Peterson.
After school that day, I boxed up the Christmas
village. Charlie Peterson and all his neighbors were packed away in another box. Then I loaded them into the car and dropped it all off at Goodwill.
Hopefully, another family has enjoyed the Christmas village without ever knowing its story - or the tainted origins of the little man in the brown overcoat.
And that's why I don't have a Christmas village anymore.
But I wasn't stupid. Christmas villages were really just grownup versions of doll houses for women like me sharing houses with husbands and sons who agonized over NFL teams and peed on toilets.
We deserved something, too.
 |
Kenny, me, Tommy. 2006 |
My Christmas village boasted a towering lit Cathedral - which didn't necessarily blend well with the cozy antique shop or the quaint corner grocer - but nevertheless filled me with delight. A couple staring dreamily at each other over steaming mugs of coffee shadowed the window of the local restaurant, and all throughout the village were busy shoppers, children on sleds, and romantic skaters drifting arm in arm around the frozen pond.
Life was perfect in the Christmas village. If only for a little while, I'd shrug off my job, dishes in the sink, and mounds of laundry to gaze in wonder and enter its magical perfection.
But I don't have the Christmas village anymore. The subversive males in my family saw to that.
It really started with my brother-in-law Cliff who visited for Christmas one year. My son Tommy is almost an exact replica of Cliff. In fact, all the Howard men - my husband, his brothers and both my sons - possess an uncanny gift of cynicism. Uncomfortably, I observed Cliff rocking back and forth on his heels taking in every aspect of the Christmas village.
"Hmm," he said.
Here's the thing about "hmm". Coming from a male of the Howard species, it always precedes a vile and nasty comment specifically designed to cut you down to size.
"Hmm," my husband John murmured once after I broke a tooth and swore at the tootsie pop still in my mouth. "If only there was a way you could prevent that sort of thing."
So now, when Cliff cast his cynical gaze over my Christmas village, I bristled.
"Don't say it," I warned. "Whatever you're about to say, just don't."
Cliff smothered a laugh. "No," he said innocently. "I was only about to say that this little guy," and he pointed to the miniature character in the brown overcoat who gesticulated wildly, "reminds me of a neighbor from back home."
The Howards, who all grew up in a small Colorado farming community, love to describe the colorful local legends of their youth.
"Who?" I asked warily.
"Charlie Peterson," Cliff cheerfully replied. "The town sex offender."
Our teenage sons enjoyed this immensely.
"Oh don't worry," Cliff reassured me hastily. "He's been in jail for a long time now."
I stared at the miniature man in his brown overcoat - except that now the overcoat seemed an object of horror.
 |
Charlie Peterson |
Kenny, I seethed.
My 16-year-old son had made up his mind to torture me. Calmly I moved Charlie Peterson to his post by the train depot and never said a word.
That same evening, Charlie had planted himself high atop the roof of the restaurant seeming to evaluate his hopeful prospects among all the villagers down below. Once again I moved him.
The next time I saw him, he was arguing passionately with a light pole.
It was a game, and I was determined not to let my wicked boy win. Kenny wouldn't mess with Charlie Peterson again for the simple reason that I tossed the small over-coated man into the trash. I could do without the little pervert. He was ruining my Christmas village.
I should not have underestimated Kenny, however. The boy has eyes in the back of his head.
Before leaving for school on Monday, I happened to glance at the Christmas village. Something was terribly awry. The fifty or so miniature characters formed a huge circle in the middle of the village. Was it my imagination, or did they seem to be cheering?
On top of Charlie was a giant white object almost engulfing him.
It was the sweet lamb from my Nativity scene.
After school that day, I boxed up the Christmas
village. Charlie Peterson and all his neighbors were packed away in another box. Then I loaded them into the car and dropped it all off at Goodwill.
Hopefully, another family has enjoyed the Christmas village without ever knowing its story - or the tainted origins of the little man in the brown overcoat.
And that's why I don't have a Christmas village anymore.
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