The kitchen in Brooklyn where I grew up was an odd shape, with a black oil burning stove made of cast iron, that heated the whole top floor, with a long thick pipe that ran from the stove to the roof. The pipe loomed as a big black unsightly looking monster that held me in control.
Whenever Christmas came along, I was at my best, because like God, Santa could see and hear everything a five year old would do. Unlike God who lived in a dark and dreary place, where I had to be quiet and behave, and get nothing out of it but reprimands, Santa offered toys, toys for me. Of course if I didn’t behave in front of God, in God’s house, Mom would smack me silly, Santa would not bring me toys and God would send me to hell, all in one fell swoop!
Of course, the Easter Bunny had some sway also, all I needed was to be bad, and all of a sudden no candy, a smack on my silly look and God sending me down to hell!
Whenever we sat around the table at night to eat dinner, and I was being contrary to Mom and Dad’s plans, a strong knocking sound would come from the big black pipe, and that meant that Santa or the Easter Bunny was listening to what I had to say, so I better behave, according to Mom and Dad.
Mom had covered all the bases, reminding me that when no one was around, and I was being bad, God heard and saw all, and I had better pack for some really hot weather.
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