It was 1970 something, and I was in the second grade.

I was six years old, and our class was presenting a Christmas play for our friends and family.

For weeks we had worked on our little version of “Twas The Night Before Christmas”.

We had gathered our costumes from items requested by our teacher from our parents. We made a mantle and faux fireplace where Santa would come through and make his appearance.

There was a 6’ long table behind the fireplace, hidden by the festive prop. At the appointed time, the little fellow playing Mr. Claus would slide off the table, and come through the chimney, much to our dramatized surprise.

I was Mama in her kerchief, rocking safely in a rocking chair, pretend knitting in my lap.

As the disembodied voice narrating the familiar story read on in the background, I put on my best Mama face, and concentrated on being a convincing adult.

Until it was time for Santa to appear.

Instead of the well rehearsed slide off the table, he fell off – in the process, he knocked forward the entire mantle and fireplace facade from the back. As it fell down onto the stage with a clatter, it revealed the table behind it, and a santa on the ground with his hat askew,

I roared with laughter, accompanied by rocking so vigorously that the chair I sat in nearly threw me backward!

The audience joined in, surprised, and I looked for and found my parents, laughing as they vigorously clapped.

It was a moment of pure joy.

Today, all these decades later, THIS is what I picture when I hear that familiar story being told.