Confessions of a Serial Santa

One benefit (downside?) of my parents high level of church involvement is that it gives my mother access to a Santa suit.  And there is only one way that my mother having access to a Santa suit will end ------> with me playing Santa at the church youth program.  I believe that tonight was the fourth or fifth time I have done so.  I'll level with you: the Santa suit is mine for all intents and purposes; living in my house all year, taunting, lurking, waiting.  Now, without further ado, some thoughts on playing Santa:

1. The suit itself isn't bad, kind of like a mildly furry, one size fits all sweat suit.  I would gladly wear it out in public, repping the Santa life.  

 The problem is the beard, dear God, the beard.  

It's scratchy, every breath comes with the bouquet of synthetic hair, and stray strands are constantly finding their way into your mouth.  Even better, children can (and do) grab on to it.  Lovable scamps.  

2. I don't get paid for this.  The first year my mother slipped me a twenty, every year since I've done it because it was expected.  The strong nuclear force is the strongest known in the universe; gravity can act across an infinite distance; but in affairs of human behavior a mother's guilt is supreme.

3. I get ready at home, not at the church, and driving across town in full Santa gear is surreal every year.  I honestly feel like I'm heading to rob a bank, not inspire America's youth.  

4. Toddlers are the best.  Infant infants are usually asleep and don't care.  Babies are terrified by Santa; they bawl and wiggle while their parents hasten to take a photograph and I smile uncomfortably.  Older kids know you're not real, and sometimes even know who you really are.* When asked what they'd like for Christmas they'll give you a list of 13 things ranging from a trampoline to an Iphone.  But toddlers, toddlers take you at face value.  "Here is a nice, bushy-faced man who is giving me things, I like him."  I filled in at the local head start on Monday, handing out story books that the staff had purchased.  3-4 of the toddlers not only wanted my help in unwrapping their books, they insisted that I read it wIth them, crowding around me from all sides. I can say it's the first time in my Santa career that my heart was warmed.

5.  Photos.  Photos. Photos.  Tonight alone I was photographed with a few week old baby girl in my arms (awwww),  250lb man on my knee (wouldn't you know the camera would malfunction at that just that moment), and everything else in between.   You smile your biggest "shine through the beard" smile and throw out "Merry Christmas!" to the point you can't take it anymore.  On the third or fourth photo with that particular child you switch to "Yay us!" or "Life is beautiful!"  Or "tuna fish sandwich!"  It doesn't matter.  You just hope the child looks at the camera, gives an expression approximating that of happiness, and their parents are satisfied.  NEXT.

Every year I dread it, and every year it's not that bad.  20 more years or so and I may actually come to like it (shudders).

*Note: it doesn't help when your own mother, one of your assistants, refers to you by name.

  

Poker

I was raised around the game of Poker - and not the "Texas Hold'em" that took the world by storm in the 2000s, but instead my family's own brand of wild competition.*  Some of my fondest childhood memories are of Poker gatherings at my grandparents, festivities that saw anywhere from 10-20 relatives - close and distant -  come together for miniature-stakes gambling, cheap American beer, and general shenanigans.  At first my interest was purely selfish; poker night meant Nintendo (and Nintendo meant SUPER MARIO BROS. 3) for little Matt. 

Only as I grew did I realize that there was more to it - the game, and the family dynamics that came along with it, were to be cherished.  In nostalgic hindsight I realize that these games, although frequent, were special family moments.  I now understand why my mother was there rain or shine, even though she very rarely played.  This is what she had grown up with, this was family. Poker brought us together, poker defined Saturday night.

At the time, however, nostalgia meant little me.  The game and the culture was just so damned interesting. What was it that made this game the highlight of everyone's week?  What was it that made tempers flare and insults fly?   I was one of those perpetual question machine children:  What's higher, a straight or a flush?  What if two people both have three of a kind?  What if?  What if?  What if?   My grandparents and great uncles/aunts had been playing for decades, while my aunts and uncles had learned on the lap of the great grandparents that I would never have a chance to meet, and they indulged me all of my curiosities.  The game had its own language.  "You son of a bitch," really meant "confound you, for you have bested me this hand!"  "Ante a lick," meant the ante was .15, a dime was just as likely to be called a "thin ten," and opening for a nickel was a "sensible bet."  If the final bet of a hand was a scant nickel, the call was likely to be accompanied with "I'd pay a nickel to watch an ant piss ... I don't care whose aunt it is!"   The dealer calling "High Chicago" was met with a chorus of boos, but the boos that abated when the game was "High Chicago Roll Your Own."** 

I remember that most everyone had their favorite game:
Grandmother: Five card stud - greeted by almost universal cussing.***
Grandfather: "Suspicion" (the name we've always used for five card draw)
Uncle Steve: 3 low with 2 draws (a game that, as far as I know, he invented)
Uncle Tom: Five card stud - greeted by almost universal cussing
Aunt Lorrie and Davena: Straight seven (seven card stud) or a Chicago variation of seven card stud.
Aunt Joy: Jacks or better - five card draw but the game cannot begin (open) unless someone has at least a pair of jacks or better after the initial cards are dealt - also greeted by unanimous cussing****

As I watched and as I asked questions, I gradually learned to play the game.  And once I knew how to play, I was hooked.  I would scrounge every scrap of change in a four state area and annoy the piss out of my immediate family by asking for everything they have.  I would show up a half-hour early for every game.  I tried desperately to avoid giving my hand away*****.  I adopted the language of the game as my own.  I came to love poker.

And then it faded away.  I went to college, and even though I never left town, I lost interest in going home on Saturday nights.  Family drama broke up the core group of players with petty grudges.  The games went from weekly occurrence to special occasion, and eventually from special occasion to even more special occasion.  All good things, as the cliche goes, must end.   

Why bring this up now?  Because I had the chance to play again this past weekend for the first time in nearly two years, and it all came rushing back to me.  The family, the camaraderie, the culture, and yeah, the winning - I came out four dollars ahead of where I started (quite a bit for a game in which most bets are measured in nickels and dimes).  At the same time, the cruelty of age is this: it wasn't the same.  My grandparents weren't there, as a 9pm start was too late for them.  A couple of my cousins stayed only until they'd lost a few dollars and then went home to their kids and an early bed time.  My uncle Tom was more interested in the "Captain and Cokes" than the cards on the table.  

Time, and memory, are a cruel mistress.

* Hold'em is a perfectly adequate game that is  useful when you're trying to play poker with 20 other people (read: never).  My issue with Hold'em is that the game is reduced to sheer probabilities instead of being played by "gut."  Hold'em is a game for statisticians, not riverboat gamblers.
** Chicago is a 7-card stud variation in which half the pot goes to the person with the lowest spade in the hole (low Chicago) or highest spade in the hole (high Chicago).  All players will prefer "Roll your own" because all cards are dealt to you face down and you get to choose what is exposed.  Thus you can both disguise the quality of your hand AND avoid having the Chicago spade dealt to you face up, where it is of no use to you.
*** In five card stud you are dealt one card down and four cards up, meaning that there is very little mystery.  Grumbling results because it is not uncommon for a high pair to win a hand, nor for a hand to be determined entirely by visible cards.  Boring.
**** Jacks or Better leads to grumbling because if no one can "open," the ante must be made again and the hand must be re-dealt.  The upside of this is that Jacks can lead to some significant pots to be won.
***** My tell become just that - when I had a really good hand I would get serious and quiet.  I tried too hard to be nondescript.  

Watching Students Take Exams

Which isn't nearly as fun as watching the detectives:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sed8IjdXdGk

I am in the back of a classroom as I write this, proctoring my last final examination for the fall term.  Behind me, out the window is a lovely view of the San Bernardino Mountains, clear, crisp, and inviting.   I can sense the fear and concern with the students, convinced, despite my countless tellings, that the exam is terribly difficult, and nearly impossible.

This leads me to consider the purpose of the classic examination.  In that it usually serve to replicate knowledge rather than test analytical skill, it has some purpose, but the analysis must then be of a low order.  One student suggested a group oral exam, and I countered with an offer for individual oral examinations.  This, they explained, would have been even more terrifying than the prospect of the written exam.  Yet, the oral exam is closer to the experience of "examination" out in the "real world."

Something to consider for next year, perhaps.

The term ends

Today was my last day of classes for the fall term.  There are exams next week, and two days yet of oral presentations to hear and assess, and plenty of backlogged grading, but the last teaching day is my signal.  It has been a rough week, one that began with a brazen robbery of a messenger satchel my office in the late afternoon.  Luckily, it appears that all I lost was a can of Coke, an energy bar, and a moleskin, as Public Safety found the bag later that night, tossed aside by the thief, undoubtedly disappointed when the bag contained mostly ungraded papers and not a lap top. 

I was angry, as one might imagine, this was the second timed I had been robbed this semester, living in a city right next door to a bankrupt city has its disadvantages I suppose.  I posted on Facebook and had much sympathy from friends, which was appreciated.  Yet, I felt a bit dramatic for making such a story of it.  I was safe, and there appears to be no serious damage from the passwords that the moleskin contained.  It could have been worse, my car key was sitting in plain sight on the desk, and the thief could easily had pulled a big score with that.