So as I've already begun to tell you, my tradition of making cards began when I was but a wee pumpkin.

Okay, who am I trying to delude here? I was NEVER "wee."

I derived my 'artistic' inspiration for my Christmas card cover art from my immediate surroundings. And since I couldn't for the life of me manage to get the dogs to be cooperative Christmas card models with tinsel wrapped around their noses, or even get them to remain stationary long enough to actually become part of the holiday stationery (one would think that the possibility of infamy would be enticing enough for any canine, but alas), I had to look elsewhere.

And it was that continued quest for inspiration in our house that led me to the Chosen Object which ended up being the controversial cover art that year (it was circa 1983, in case you were wondering. I was about nine years old).

I found it in my one sister's bedroom (which was off-limits to me, but since she was away at boarding school I decided to risk it), and knew as soon as I laid eyes on it that I had found the object that was to be my 1983 Christmas card cover art.

I broke another one of the cardinal Laws of Intimidation Inflicted by Older Siblings when I proceeded to remove the festive-looking object from my sister's room.

Oh, what great lengths a wannabe artist will go to for inspiration!

Anyway, so I took the object to my room where I spent hours painstakingly drawing it onto folded card stock.

I usually gave the first card to my parents right after making it, but that year, in an attempt to up the surprise factor a bit, I decided to keep them in suspense. So I finished making all the other identical cards, sealed and addressed the envelopes and asked my mom to take me to the post office on her next trip into town. (We lived on a farm.)

It just so happened that she needed to buy something that same afternoon, so she drove me into town and I took great delight in feeding all the envelopes (and there were quite a few, for I sent homemade cards to all of my aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents) through the slot of the post office mailbox.

When we got home later that day, I presented my mom with her and my dad's envelope.

She opened it with a huge smile and took the card from the envelope. She looked at it, and that's when her face went pale and then crimson.

"Is... is... How? Where did you find this picture?" My mother could hardly speak.

"I drew it, Mommy!" I said, very proud of the fact that a card made by me with my very own hands had evoked such emotion in my mom. It was plain to see that she was so moved, she was almost speechless!

"Is... Has... Is this the picture you drew on all of the cards? The cards that we mailed earlier today?"

"Yes, Mom. You know that I draw the same picture for everyone every year." I was growing impatient, because I didn't want her to ask me silly questions anymore. I was keenly awaiting her praise. It was time for her to make a fuss over the pretty picture I had drawn and for her to give it a special place among all the other Christmas cards that were already on display on the piano. It was my favourite part of our yearly ritual.

But my mom just stood there, as frozen as an ice sculpture. (Which is remarkable when you consider that Christmas in South Africa takes place during the scorching summer.)

At last she spoke again: "Where did you draw it from? Did you trace it?" Oy, still with the silly questions...

"It's a candle I found in Big Sister's room."

"Why didn't you draw an angel like last year?"

"Because that was LAST YEAR, Ma." I was REALLY getting impatient now. "Besides, I liked this better."

A candle on a Christmas card is a perfectly respectable picture, isn't it? It so beautifully and aptly convey the holiday message of hope and peace. Doesn't it?

My mom didn't think so. And, although the rest of the family's reaction to my Christmas card "art" never reached my ears, I suspect that my 1983 Christmas card never went on display in any of its recipients' homes.

After all, it never made it onto our piano with the rest of the cards. Of course I was very upset at first, but after discussing the matter at some length (but on a strictly need-to-know basis), I eventually conceded that my mom had a valid point:

No matter how festive you think it might be, a picture of a candle shaped like a grinning red devil with the words "Horny Little Devil" engraved onto its bulbous stomach in big yellow letters, really has no business of being on a Christmas card.

P.S. I never saw that satanic candle again. I later found out that my sis - who as a young teen was as oblivious to the meaning of the engraved pun as I was - had bought the candle for herself, because it matched the red decor of her room.

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