Christmas of ’76 was a weird one. Wonderful but weird.
I got a slew of presents. I mean the living room was absolutely flooded with wrapped boxes. And, a drum kit. Kind of hard to wrap a drum kit. So I’m thinking it had a bow on it at least.
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I think there may have been a burnt orange Schwinn Stingray, a Six Million Dollar man action figure with the hole in his head that you could look through and there would be a visible cross-sight. Maybe Stretch Armstrong. Evil Knievel rip cord motorcycle perhaps. G.I. Joe camper ATV. Big Wheel.
It was an absolute haul for an only child whose parents would go their separate ways not even a year later. I highly doubt I had any inkling at the time. But, in retrospect it seems pretty likely Santa was more than helping smooth parental guilt, and I’m genuinely okay with that.
One bittersweet aspect of your parents ending their marriage is, seen through kid eyes (with cross-sight accuracy), it dawns on you that you get double the birthdays, double the Christmas days. My recollection is that I maybe acted out in school for one grade, then adjusted and moved on. My Dad would come get me for weekend visits, we would go to McDonald’s and see a Bond movie. I’d see my paternal grandparents and catch fish at their lake house. It all seemed very normal. I certainly never felt cheated.
No idea whatever happened to that drum kit, in case you were wondering. I don’t recall any lessons. But, sure wish I could play the drums today.