Good Santa, Bad Santas

My brother is Santa every year for the kids of the people in his old squadron (Bro, did I get that right -- squadron?). He's perfect, and not just because he's not elf-sized. He has a deep voice useful for ho-ho-ho-ing, and kids love him. Where a grown-up might see a big, scary, intimidating fellow, kids seem to see a big, friendly, teddy-bear horsey jungle gym. He taxis up in a plane, dressed as Mr. Claus, and the kiddies go nuts.

Good Santa.

My sister-in-law was a self-declared Bad Santa. She went around putting those teeny alcohol bottles in everyone's stocking (baby nephew being the exception). In Boston, those bottles are called "nips." If you're not from Boston, you're welcome to snicker at that like I did.

Bad-but-fun Santa!

Then there's what I did to my nephew. Wicked Aunt Holly should not be so proud of herself. And yet, proud she is. Guess what she got him. Guess guess guess! OK, I'll spill: You know that bunny suit that Ralphie gets from his Aunt Clara in A Christmas Story? Yeah, I did. Commissioned a smaller version of it, so the Neph could wear it before he's old enough to hate me.

Not-yet-hated Santa!