A CHRISTMAS SURPRISE

Uncle Gnarley is no Scrooge.  He has a conscience often fettered by doubt. As much as he likes to be hopeful, he despairs that his fellow man will ever see beyond his own front yard. He is gruff and direct though he is never mean spirited. He neither fears Christmases’ past nor those yet to come.   Indeed, his cantankerous manner belies an insouciant spirit. 

The old man had gone to bed early on Christmas Eve. Usually, I have to kick him upstairs when he stays over; conveniently, Christmas serves to justify repeat testing of our favourite single malts. On this occasion, a Balvenie, a Dalwhinnie and an Oban 14 year old, were expected to add flavor to the evening and gravitas to the matters under debate.  Only the latter, a big bodied malt with a nose of smoke, citrus and other flavors received ample tasting, when Gnarley announced he would retire and let Santa do his work.  Perhaps, the last few days of computer tutorials, compounded with the rather arduous hike to Petty Harbour, on Tib’s Eve, had worn him down in both mind and spirit.  I did not attempt to discourage him; he restated his Christmas felicitations and went upstairs.  Within minutes I could hear him snore.

As is usual, when Uncle Gnarley stays over, I bounded out of bed early to make sure preparations for an early breakfast were started, as I did, again, this Christmas morning. I especially wanted to get the coffee brewed, expresso strength, just the way he likes it.  Passing by his bedroom door, I was startled to hear guttural noises and a strange rustling of the bed; it did not resemble any of the sounds with which I associated Uncle Gnarley.  Remembering his early retirement from our festivity, and thinking him in distress, I opened the door in a hurry.  In an instant, I felt some of the same terror which seemed to have overcome our favourite guest.