HOLIDAY GAMBOL

Prompt: A prank gone wrong

Three stacks of Christmas cards—religious, scenic, and cute—claimed one half of our mahogany dining room table; a dog-eared address book, two sets of stamps (religious and secular), and multi-colored pens weighed down the other. In the middle sat my mother; across from her, me.

The annual assembly line of sending Christmas cards began the day after Thanksgiving. Because I was the oldest girl with straight As in penmanship, my job was helper.

We didn’t have a lot of money to spare, so Mom usually bought the cards the year before when Christmas products went on sale. There were 24 cards in each box—some even had a bonus envelope. She liked that. After meticulously counting and allocating cards according to recipients, she counted and allocated the appropriate stamps for each stack. You never want to send an angel when a snowman will do.

Iconic manger scenes went to the priests, nuns, and anyone else who would appreciate blessings more than greetings. Greetings—not blessings—went to a dozen or two milkmen, mailmen, and general acquaintances.

To the extended family went the cute cards. Mom searched for ones that had eight characters—elves, angels, dogs in silly sweaters—anything that would represent my parents and their six children. Each character would be labeled with the name of someone in our family. That was my job, and it usually involved using different colors of ink.

“Have Jimmy light the candle,” she would dictate. As the eldest, he got the prime role. The youngest got the cutest. “Put Emmett in the box under the tree.”

When she wasn’t looking, I would give myself top billing.

Mom handled the cards that needed an annual message. You know, all the proud parent stuff—Bobby made honor roll; Eileen was in the Christmas pageant; Kathie started kindergarten, etc.

She was strict about signatures and maintained a list of those that came from The Walshes; another from, Jim, Mary, and the Children; and occasionally, if the recipient was a friend of hers, it would be signed Mary, Jim, and the Children.

I once signed a card, Mary, Jim, and the Kids.

“Kids!” She exclaimed. “Kids are baby goats. I do not send cards from baby goats!” She tore the card in half and threw it away. That screwed up her count.

Inspired by that, though, I snuck a generic card from the stack and, with a younger brother, crafted a Christmas message from a fictitious family that read like a soap opera.

Jean had to go back to work, we wrote, because Bob was in jail for embezzlement—or maybe it was drunk driving. One of the kids was kicked out of school for smoking. Another was repeating second grade—again. The car had been stolen—or maybe it was wrecked when Bob got drunk. I don’t remember. But, of course, they were grateful for God’s goodness. They asked for prayers and looked forward to a better new year.

We signed it, Jean, Bob, and the Kids, addressed it to The Walshes, and mailed it with a religious stamp on our way to school.

We were sure that Mom would recognize the card, stamp, handwriting, and forbidden signatory.

But she didn’t. Weeks passed. Christmas came and went. She bought new cards for the following year. I finally ’fessed up and asked if she got the card.

Her hands went to either side of a face that turned white. Then wide-eyed red with consternation. Then slowly, back to a ruddy beige. Finally, she grinned. Since she didn’t know anyone named Jean or Bob who had suffered such travesties, she and my father took it upon themselves to find the right household. Since Walsh is a common name, they pored through the phone book for a whole morning before finding someone who indeed knew Jean and Bob. They hadn’t heard from them in years!

I don’t know if she ever told my father, who dutifully—and probably resentfully—drove the card across town. Nor do I know what the other Walshes did with their woefully misdirected greeting. I do wish, though, I had been there when they read it. Maybe they sent it to someone else. But I do know that Jean, Bob, and the Kids gamboled that Christmas.