Editor's Notes from Miguel - Once Upon a Christmas Time, West Coast Midnight Run™

would come out and start throwing rocks at us because we were vandalizing her property and we would delight in throwing rotting figs at her and teasing her for being out of sorts over "her" property, which we all knew was on the main public dirt road.

On some occasions, one of the boys' parents would buy them a Matchbox car, a little replica car from the late 60s and early 70s (yesterday's version of HotWheels die-cast cars). They would go around showing it off to all the kids and they would be King for a Week, permitting anyone they like to have a turn playing with the little car.

I was often pushed aside or made fun off. My dad never got me one of those, I had none to trade or loan in exchange for the privilege of playing with the other guy's prized toy car.

I was often hurt by these kids' who probably thought it was all just fun for them. There were many times when I would be invited to play with the Matchbox and then I would be told to give it right back, or someone would step on my hand as I drove the car over the stairs or on the concrete pavement or on make-belief roads and towns along the dirt groves. Sometimes we used to use old and worn out play cards stacked to create fictional buildings as I watched the kids play with their prized hot wheels.

There were times when I was loaned a Matchbox and then the kid would in a few minutes ask me how come I am playing with his toy and then proceed into beating me up, resulting in all kind of arguments between the parents, which delighted these kids and of course I was grounded for a week, because I was the guilty party and should not have accepted the offer in the first place. I should have been savvy enough at the age of seven to realize that the neighbors' kids and my play friends were simply oafish and selfish and displayed a streak of

their adult counterparts and their own parents - a lesson which eventually did sink in.

And then on Christmas Eve, my dad asked all of us to go to the bedroom early. We all slept in the same bedroom, all four kids in one bed and my parents in their bed. I was seven and the youngest must have been two..

For some odd reason I was unable to go to sleep even though my dad returned and checked on us that we were all sleeping. I just pretended I was when I heard his footsteps.

I could hear him and my mom busily talking in the main hallway which also served as the dining hall and as the eminent "salon" for welcoming visitors and guests.

I could barely squeeze under the large closet which was several inches off the ground on wooden legs. Behind the closet was a doorway to the "Great Hall" which had been made invisible by a dark, long and thick curtain.

I was really worried I might get grounded if I got caught so my heart was really beating and I could hear it pounding in my ears louder than anything in the dead of night, all of my siblings were asleep, so was the entire neighborhood and I was sure my parents could hear my breathing and beating heart over their own conversation.

They were busily unpacking all kind of boxes and they had scissors and tape and wrapping and in a moment I understood the fiction of Santa Claus was just a big lie and my parents were busy prepping up gifts to put under the tree rather than Santa Claus bringing the presents to us.

I must have remained there a good moment of time watching them work really late, unpacking and wrapping and chatting before I was really tired and slid off from under the closet and went to sleep in bed.

In the morning after breakfast,