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Fred would be the boy who married the girl with the beautiful teeth, but of course at the time, we didn’t know this.  Me, Fred, I’m sure even the girl didn’t see this one coming, although to hear her tell it now, thirty years later, you’d think she’d planned the whole thing all along.  I’m staring at Shelly’s mouth, watching her form the words, but still having trouble keeping up with the conversation.  I’ve never met a woman without perfect hindsight, I’m sure of it, and worse yet, sitting there staring at her mouth like that, I can’t stop thing about the Christmas Teeth. 

Fred would be the boy who married the girl with the beautiful teeth, but of course, neither one of us had any way of knowing this at the time.

I don’t know if what I’m about to write down could be called a Christmas story or not, because I’ve never actually heard of a Christmas story about teeth, but I’m going to go ahead and tell it anyway, and for what it’s worth, I’m going to call it a Christmas story because, well, it’s Christmas time, and isn’t any story that happens around Christmas become a Christmas story**, much the same way that a bedtime story becomes a bedtime story simply because it’s read around bedtime? 

There are all sorts of Christmas stories out there - just about anything a person could possibly imagine, I’d guess - so if I tell you a story about teeth, I don’t see why we can’t all just accept the fact that what I’m about to tell you is a Christmas story that just happens to revolve around teeth, even though, thinking about it now, as I’m about to write it all down, I’m not sure is quite the truth.

The story happens to be about many things, not just teeth (which would be not only ridiculous but kind of boring), so I suppose you might say that it’s no different than all the other Christmas stories out there.  The story of Rudolph, for example, is about more than just a red nose, isn’t it?  And without giving anything away or spoiling the fun for any of the younger or more innocent readers out there, I’m sure there’s more to the whole Santa story then meets the eye.  Even the story of the baby Jesus is more then a tale of a baby born in a manger.  I mean, come on, look at the way that story takes off in every direction at once. 

So yes, while the story I’m about to share is about many different things, it somehow also happens to be a story about teeth, Christmas teeth, I guess we’ll call them, although at the time the story was unfolding, none of us would have known that what was happening was a story about Christmas teeth.  As a matter of fact, I think it’s safe to say that at the time this story was taking place, none of us even had a clue that it would become a story at all.  One day you’re living life, and the next you’re sitting there, talking about it, which to be honest with you, leaves me not quite sure what to believe. 

Maybe in the end, that’s all a Christmas story about teeth can really be about.  You and I, sitting down together to share a tale as we try to decide what is real and what is not, because when you think about it, isn’t that what Christmas has always been about anyway?  Friends and family, mysteriously drawn together to share a bit of time, exchange a few gifts, and huddle around whatever obscure, distended Christmas story they happen to believe in.

This version just happens to be about teeth.

**This story also available in the popular, alternate version, The Hanukkah Teeth

. . . to be continued

“No, seriously.  You run like a bear, sort of hunched and lumbering along.  Pope Clement VI ran like a bear, too, you know.  I would chase him for hours around the place, just to watch him run.  Man were those good times!”

Forgive me, my invisible friends, for putting off something as timely as my heart warming Christmas story, but I have been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Bubonic Plague, or so he claims.  Personally, I don’t think he’s quite that ominous, but nevertheless seems to be able to conjure up quite a bit of pressure and snot inside my head and follows me around the house constantly.  I consulted Mr. Cooper’s ghost (who continues to remain trapped in the pickle jar), and he says he’s never met this particular shade, but has heard of him.  “That one’s got the attention span of a mayfly.  He’ll be out of here in a day or two.  Maybe three,” Mr. Cooper said.

“I thought mayflies lived one day, not two or three?”

“Give me a break.  There’s no money on the other side, you know.  It’s all true, you can’t take it with you.  But we make up for it with analogy.  Analogy crosses over.”

“He’s right,” the Ghost of Christmas Bubonic Plague said.  “Right as Pope Clement VI’s rotting birth control policy.”

”That’s your analogy?”

“I’m more of a take action kind of ghost.  Behold!” His hands and shoulders shook around a bit and my head throbbed even harder.  My nose started to drip, forcing me to run for the bathroom for a tissue.

“Ha.  You run like a bear,” roared the Ghost of Christmas Bubonic Plague.  He seemed to enjoy his job.

“Another analogy?”

“No, seriously.  You run like a bear, sort of hunched and lumbering along.  Pope Clement VI ran like a bear, too, you know.  I would chase him for hours around the place, just to watch him run.  Man were those good times!”

“When do you think you’ll be leaving?  I have a Christmas story I’d like to get to.”

“Day or two.  I have no interest in hearing your Christmas story, thanks to him.”

“Who’s that?”

“Christ!  Who else you think I’d be talking about?  Wandering around all day long, going on and on about being crucified.  And let me tell you, that guy is one analogy talking fool.  One after another until you can’t hardly make sense of what the guy’s saying.  Absolutely drives me nuts.”

“Crucifixion!  He should spend some time trapped in this jar,” Mr. Cooper’s ghost said.  “Trapped!  Like air freshener scent!  I’m afraid I’m growing weak in here.”

“I just want to tell a story about my friend, Fred.”

The Ghost of Christmas Bubonic Plague just shook his head back and forth, making my head pound.

“Don’t we all, kid.  Don’t we all.”

I’m tellin’ you, it was like a frickin’ rainstorm out there, except it was like all these ideas just pourin’ down on us.  I don’t know how else to explain it.  Just ideas, over and over and over, and then it stopped, whatever it was, and it was like we were wet, all of us, just drippin’ wet with all these ideas.  I looked over at the others, and I could see they were feelin’ the same thing.  I could see it somehow, like it was one of the ideas.  And I don’t know how to explain what happened next, other then as soon as that storm passed, or whatever it was, the ideas just started dryin’ up.  I swear, it felt like we was dryin’ up just standin’ there starin’ at each other.  Like we wouldn’t remember any of it after a few minutes and there wasn’t nothin’ we could do about it.  I tried to look at the others, but I couldn’t.  I wanted to, but I was scared.  It don’t make no sense, I know, but I was scared of dryin’ up, like there’d be nothin’ left of me when it was over.  Nothin’.