Babar’s No Good, Very Bad Day
Virtually every kid has one stuffed animal that equals, in importance, at least 80 percent of a human sibling. For my little sister, it was a white elephant named Babar. Kirsten loved Babar to pieces—almost literally, in fact—until one fateful Christmas when she was four and I was six. My sister and I had just gotten into the car after receiving identical bob haircuts (as was the routine until she and I were 11 and 13, respectively), when my sister shrieked, “Where’s Babar?!?” Alas, despite her constant care and love, my mother had committed a cardinal sin: in her haste, while buckling in my sister and me, my mom had put Babar on the roof of the car, and the furry cuddle-mate flew to his death as soon as we drove away. You would have thought my sister’s dog and best friend had died on the same day from the way she mourned Babar. My parents and I were at a loss until we came up with an ingenious scheme. Come Christmas morning, my sister had a real letter from d Santa! “Dear Kirsten,” it read, “a little elf named Katie was so lonely, so Babar came to the North Pole to keep her company. She’s so happy now! Thank you!” I’m fairly certain my sister only recently found out who really wrote that letter. —Chelsea Paige (SFS ’09)
Year of the Zombie
My high school friend Joe had a talent for reproducing blood, gore, and zombie-faces using little more than mundane slimes: glue, spaghetti sauce, and vinegar. He also had a video camera and several friends who lacked the game to score dates for New Year’s Eve. But who needed dates? Joe provided us with something so much better: the opportunity to star in the epic independent film Scream You Will Be Dead Soon 2: The Return. That New Year’s I lost my arm in a chainsaw battle before being hacked to pieces in the snow, wearing nothing but a sleeveless shirt and gobs of cold and gooey “blood” paste. I still have the shirt sleeves pinned to my wall. —John Lawless (COL ’09)
Tree Fundamentalism
Of all the nouns in the English language modified by the word “Christmas” (including favorites such as “cookies,” “carols,” and “ale”), “tree” is by far the most wonderful. A militant holiday traditionalist, the perfect Christmas tree has always been central to my enjoyment of Christ’s birthday. Spare me the preachy lectures on materialism—I just can’t get over my arboreal fixation. Ever since I can remember, I have braved the (literally) breath-taking December winds of Cleveland with my father in search of the perfect pine: at least nine feet tall, a dark shade of green, and, most importantly, full-figured—think fleshy Flemish nudes…except in tree form. Last year, however, in my absence, my misguided father got a “designer” tree instead. I took the news hard, way harder than a college-age woman should. But I can’t help it. I like fat trees, not those pretty, spindly Alpine ones that dot the background of J. Crew photo shoots in which models prance around the snow while wearing satin heels. Christmas trees should be densely sprigged, obese pines, ready to be ornamented with fraying cloth ornaments, tacky colored (and potentially hazardous) lights and a dented star tree-topper, not white lights and whimsical cream swans. So, consider this your warning, Dad: this year, think fat, not pretty. If only the rest of life were so simple. —Clare Malone (COL ’09)
Y2K! Y2K!
New Year’s 2000 was tense. My family had spent the past year or so contemplating the meaning of “partying like it’s 1999” and trying to understand how machines so clearly smarter than we would have such difficulty counting past one hundred. On December 31st, my friend Annie’s family came over as they do every New Year’s Eve to assemble large puzzles and drink champagne. Disaffected 12-year-olds that we were, Annie and I decided it would be a hoot to kill the lights and make everyone think that Y2K had hit. As the countdown started, we positioned ourselves near the light switches in the family room. As soon as the ball dropped and the cheering started, we flipped off the lights and started yelling, “Ahh, it’s Y2K! It’s Y2K! We’re all in trouble now!” over Dick Clark’s platitudes. Our families seemed remarkably unperturbed. My mom looked at me. “Shira,” she said, “The TV’s still on.” Annie and I slunk off in shame; the machines had triumphed, once again. —Shira Hecht (COL ’10)
