I do not know about you but one of the very first memories that I have is a terrifying one. I could not even have been two years old at the time. I am not capable of walking by myself because I remember my father, Rowen, carrying me around on his shoulders.

I have a red velvet dress on with white tights and the tiny shock of bright blonde hair that exists on my head has a red barrette in it. I’m uncomfortable because of the itchy material in the mesh keeping my dress poufy. Ophelia, Ophelia, is walking next to my mother, Genevieve, in a nice dress chattering about something. However, I cannot recall the specifics.

I know that I am on my father’s shoulders because I can still see the reflection of the fluorescent lights on the floor. I imagined, as I bounced on my fathers shoulders, that any second he was going to catch up with the reflection, stomping on it, and then moving on to catch the next reflection; a game I played often as a child. I remember being shocked every time that my father came narrowly close to stepping on the reflection, which then magically flitted away.

All of a sudden we have come to a stop. We proceed to wait in a line at what I can only imagine was a Sears store or at least close to one. The light is pale and harsh, children are arguing in line. Ophelia is restless herself as we wait for who knows how long to see a large man in a velvet red suit. I, of course, am too young to be irritated with the waiting and far too young to understand that our goal is to see this large, velvet clothed and bespectacled man.

As we near the front of the line my father hands me over to my mother, who seems to be in a pleasant mood despite all of the chaos and noise of meeting “Santa Claus”. My father has slipped away just as we near the head of the line. I assume now that he headed to the bathroom or possibly into Sears to look at some sort of new tool that he wanted for Christmas.

We have finally made it to the front of the line and I watch Ophelia enter the white picket gate and sit on a strange mans lap. This man is covered head to toe in a red suit with white fur, he’s fat, has tiny glasses that do not fit his face, and his beard, unlike my father’s is white and exceptionally long and unkempt. Despite the fact Opheila, Santa, and myself are all wearing the same bright red velvet garments I am not impressed with this strange pageantry so I begin to cry mercilessly. It is at this point that a woman dressed in green velvet britches and a pointy hat approaches my mother and grabs me. However, the worst part is that while I am crying out and holding onto my mother for dear life she lets me go into the arms of this stranger! How could she do this to me? Is she going to leave me here forever? Where is my father? Where is Rowen? Rowen would never let this happen to me!!!!! Now at this point in my life I could not form intelligible words despite my ability to be consciously aware of my place as the baby of our clan and my parents’ place as my protectors. Yet on this day I came dangerously close to forming the word DAD as I struggled to blubber my way to safety.

To make the whole experience even more confusing I can see Ophelia on the other knee of this strange gentleman’s lap. Opheila is rolling her eyes in disdain at me while she tells Santa all about the things she wants this Christmas. Santa, himself, does not seem incredibly pleased with me, the screaming two-year-old in his left arm. My mother is on the other side of the gate telling me I’m fine and that “Santa Claus isn’t scary.” My mother just keeps repeating this information to me from a distance as if that is what is going to make me stop crying and screaming my fool head off.

After several minutes of this torture an elf attempts to capture my attention and once she does several flashes of light occur in quick succession. I’m dazed for a second and then I capture a glimpse of my father in the crowd. Rowen is now standing next to my mother and I feel this sudden sense of relief wash over me as they both start to smile while one of Santa’s little helpers hands me back to Genevieve. I don’t calm down officially for a while but eventually I cry myself to sleep and wake up in the car on the way home. To this day we have pictures of me crying in Santa’s lap that year. After that I do not recall getting another picture with Santa Claus ever again.

Now one thing that stuck with me throughout that whole ordeal was Genevieve’s words, “Santa Claus isn’t scary.” As an adult though I think it’s simple to see why a child would think that Santa Claus is scary. First off this guy is six feet tall and probably weighs close to 400 pounds. This mythical man dresses in a red velvet suit and climbs down your chimney to perpetrate a breaking and entering while you sleep. Then he leaves presents for you, but only if you’ve been nice all year because he has been stalking every move you make. Then this jolly fellow steals your cookies and drinks your milk all while sleep soundly in your beds. Tell me again how Santa Claus isn’t scary?