This time of year when I turn up the thermostat, I think of Mom, who was always turning up the thermostat, and how when Dad would catch her he launched into, “They call me Heat-Miser,” prancing and bellowing that whole ridiculous song.Īnd when I think of Dad at this time of year, I think of a Christmas gift he gave Mom once, a huge, colorfully wrapped box, which she opened only to find inside another wrapped box, and Dad laughed as she opened that box to find another wrapped box, and then another, and so on, boxes inside boxes (everything from Dad was always a joke, a big laugh, an absurd story, a ridiculous reenactment, an outlandish flattery (as I grew older, I made attempts at heartfelt conversation with the man, but these only set him to searching for more ludicrous diversions (what I mean is, Dad was like that big delightfully wrapped box: when I tried to peel it open, I found inside another gaudy box, and inside that box another box, etc. It's the 40th anniversary of "The Year Without a Santa Claus," so for this new edition of Salon's two-sentence fiction series, we asked our acclaimed novelists to include Heat-Miser and Cold-Miser.
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