The Year of “Ball-Headed, Baby Jesus”
Perhaps my earliest of all Christmas memories was the year of the “Ball-Headed Baby Jesus.” It went a little something like this… “And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?” Santa asked me as I stood several feet away from this bearded, fat man I had grown terribly afraid of, and I said nothing. He asked again, and I clutched my mother’s leg, hiding behind her. “I bet I know what Mama wants for Christmas this year!” He said…