A present snooper destined to suffer a guilty conscience

It was an early December day in 1974 and my mother was busy putting out the Christmas decorations in our Limekiln Lake home.

She had laid out a bed of angel hair to rest the little illuminated cardboard village.

Garland and wreaths were hung and candles were set just right.

And best of all was the placement of our individual Advent calendars.

The anticipation of Christmas was especially grueling for me that year and the calendar reminded me daily of how long the wait would actually be.

As an eight-year-old, I could not restrain myself from peeking under beds and in the back of closets for items I hoped to find  under the tree in just 20 days.

But my searches were in vain as I found nothing—and I mean nothing.

No presents or wrapping paper—not so much as a gift tag!

Feeling a bit defeated, I opted to go outside and practice my saucer skills on the hill in back of the house.

My dog Mutt followed me up the open hillside and into the trees for about a quarter mile.

The fresh nine inches of snow that had fallen overnight was light and fluffy and made for an easy trek.

Mutt forged ahead, stopping every so often to dip her head deeply into the snow. Every time she popped her head out she let out a big, wet sneeze.

When I figured we had ventured high enough I set the saucer down and surveyed the hillside.

With trees placed in the wrong spots, it appeared that I was in for a pretty tricky and technical saucer run.

But I was on a mission. I crossed my legs Indian-style and plopped onto the saucer.

I ate a bit of snow from the top of my mitten and vaulted down the hill.

At first I had some trouble keeping the saucer pointed in the right direction.

I slipped a bit diagonally to the left and bounced off a six-inch maple.

I picked up some speed, losing my hat to the lower branch of a White Pine.

Mutt leaped down the hill beside me yelping all the way, being careful not to get run over.

Once I hit the bottom of the hill I flipped out of the saucer onto my back. I laid in a heap looking up at the grey sky.

I took the moment to contemplate where my parents had hidden Christmas.

Mutt gave my face a good licking and released me from my trance.

She reminded me that a perfectly good packed-down sliding path was awaiting further usage.

We made several more runs before we became too bruised, tired and wet to carry on.

Upon our return home I put the saucer away in the garage.

It was then that I remembered there was a storage space above my father’s garage shop.

Of course, I thought to myself. That must be where the Christ-mas presents were stored.

But the only way to access the space was by climbing the floor to ceiling shelf bin.

“You need to be the look out!” I said to Mutt.

I climbed twelve feet up and was ready to peek into the lofted space when Mutt started to bark.

I gave her a wave and a “shush” as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

But I was disappointed to find nothing there—just a bunch of old boards and signs—no evidence of Christmas at all.

A thought entered my mind as I sat perched on the shelf. What if I had cursed myself by all the searching I had done.

Perhaps what I was doing was so bad that I had ruined Christmas for my brother and sister too.

Did I make Christmas go away altogether?

Those next 20 days went by even slower than I could have ever imagined. Time seemed to have come to a complete stop.

But when December 25 arrived there was one thing I knew for sure… my parents had hidden our Adirondack Christmas very well.

Mitch Lee is an Adirondack illustrator & storyteller, living in his boyhood town of Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com