Jane Snyder
Little Red Schoolhouse My mother and father were in a good mood the day they put us on the train, full of fun. It was Saturday and they stayed upstairs for a long time. When they came down they sat on the couch with us, watching Underdog, said nothing about it being time to do our chores. After the cartoons they played the Christmas record we loved, purchased during the first year of their marriage before they had us, and danced to “Rudolph, the Rednosed Reindeer Mambo,” my father swooping and dipping my mother, then tangoing sharply from the bookcase to the TV, from the TV to the Christmas tree, and back. When they fell, panting, back onto the couch, Finn, our Irish Setter, jumped in the middle, pushed them apart, ground his hind quarters into the couch cushion, licked my father’s face. “That’s the same tongue he licks his butt with,” my mother said primly, folding her hands in her lap. “And other things. I don’t want to say what.” “Aw, sweetheart,” my father said, “can I help it if he finds me attractive?” We laughed and laughed. Lunch, Campbell’s Chicken Gumbo Soup, wasn’t on a level with the rest of the morning, but we ate the dull-colored bits of vegetable at the bottom of the bowl without complaining. When we were done Suzie asked if there was dessert. My mother said we didn’t need it; there would be refreshments on the Santa Train. Oh, yes, they said, when we didn’t know what that was. A surprise for you. After lunch, we were going to the train station so Suzie and I could go for a ride on a train, a special train just for children. Santa was the only grownup allowed. I was nine, didn’t care about Santa.
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