Lathal Hamel's soft, melodious voice crooned with Perry Como's as his version of the Christmas tune "Winter Wonderland" played on the stereo.

"'In the meadow we can build a snowman," she sang as she hung another ornament on the tree. "And pretend that he is parson Brown. He'll say, 'are you married?' We'll say, 'no, man, but you can do the job while you're in town.'"

From my spot at the kitchen table, I paused, looking up at my mother. Lathal had the most pretty vocals and she caught my attention every time she sang, even though she only did so at home.

My fingers, coated with salt and butter, had been raking through the big white plastic popcorn bowl while stringing kernels onto the thread. Licking them off one at a time, I held up the strand, grinning from ear to ear since I was proud of the monstrosity I constructed. "Mom, is this good enough?" I asked, holding the creation up for her to see.

"It looks good to me," she smiled. "But why don't you come over here and find out?"

Springing from the chair, the creation dangling like a smiley face in front of me, I zipped over to the tree to where Lathal carefully considered where she'd place the gold ornament in her hand. As she scanned for bare branches on the artificial tree, I spied her occasionally glancing over her shoulder at me.

The message was clear. Mom was there whenever I needed her, even though I didn't now. Hanging popcorn was a relatively easy task. Still, it was a nice feeling knowing Mommy was there, and a thrill that she was letting me help her decorate the tree.

Gazing up at her with a boyish twinkle in my eyes, I asked, "Mom, when is Dad coming home?"

"Hmm?" Lathal murmured, her distracted gaze drifted to the cuckoo clock on the wall.

I stared at my mother, a blank expression etched on her face, and I knew she was distracted. As her hand hovered above a sparsely decorated branch near the back side of the tree, I wondered what she was thinking about.

Shaking herself out of her dazed state, Lathal returned her attention to hanging elves, angels, candy canes and Snoopys that had decorated our tree for years and years. She patted me on the head. "Soon, Michael. He went to an audition, but he said he'd be home after that."

Now I was sure my mother was out of it. She hardly ever called me Michael.

For reasons I don't quite understand, Mom insisted upon calling me Larry. She was a bit of a tradtionalist when it came to names. And I guess I can understand, after all, Larry was the name she'd given me at birth.

But I really can't stand the name, Larry. I hated it. Just the sound of it ringing throughout my head gives me the willies. Every time I hear it I think of some fat kid who loves to bowl or eats paste, or something like that.

Now Michael, that's a name I can really go for. It means he who is like God. It generally refers to someone who is pleasant, friendly and agreeable and usually good looking. And that's definitely me.

Micheal's certainly a better name than Larry, which is a shorten version of Lawrence that means laurel covered. Some of the traits commonly associated with the name include being sensitive and domestic and having a tendency to be emotional and easily influenced to tears

Not me at all, I thought, shaking my head, realizing I'd spent too much time getting bent out of shape about my name that I forgotten about the real issue. I was back on track now. My thoughts drifted back, what had my mother said?

Ah, yes, I remember. The words became very clear as my finger brushed one of the old Christmas ornaments that my mother had made out of canning lids as a child, she'd said my father went to an audition.

I shot her a long dubious look sideways. Who did she think she was trying to fool? The "audition" excuse was a line, and I wasn't buying. This was the oldest ruse in the book and we both knew it, but my mom thought she could pull a fast one on me.

See, I was onto her. I had cracked the code. Around the holidays, "audition" had become a word that in my parent's secret language translated into "your father is out` shopping for your Christmas present."

That had to be it. With the holidays a week away, I knew my father, an actor with the Falls Theater Players, a professional theater company in a suburb of central Texas where we lived, would not have a show until after the new year.

Mimicking my mother's actions, I reached into a plastic bag that rustled as I pulled out a carton of plastic ornaments in a variety of shapes and hues. While searching for spots to hang them, I ocassionally pushed myself up on my tip toes to reach the branches at the top, otherwise the bottom and mid sections would be crammed with decorations since I'm such a shrimp.

I had to make it look like I was helping. I wanted my mom to believe I'd fallen for the ol' "audition" excuse, didn't I?

"Oh," I nodded in understanding, letting my mother think I had no clue about what going on, but as I said before I was onto her. "I'm sure he'll be home any minute."

A chilly gale whistled as Malan Hamel walked through the front door right on cue. "Lucy, I'm home," he called in a lilting Latino accent similar to Ricky Ricardo's and flipped his wife a sloppy grin.

Still standing at my post by the tree, my father didn't see the flicker of an amused smile that appeared on my lips or hear the snicker that his antics had triggered.

Wearing a long, bulky, black coat with matching scarf and mittens, Malan began to peel off multiple layers by the closet near the front door.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him with admiration, thinking, I doubt there had ever been a day my father has missed a cue.

The door lightly squeaked as my father opened it. Removing a hangar, he hung his scarf and coat on its wire frame, placing it in the closet before closing the closet door again.

In that short amount of time, Lathal moved with the same style and grace that Victorian noble women exhibited in those classic plays and TV films as she made her way over to her husband. Her bluish-green eyes swept up and down his body, she brushed the white specks speckled in his short, feathered brown hair and shoulders.

"You're a mess," she teased him softly.

"Mmm," he said in quiet agreement.

She gave her beloved a tender kiss.

I rolled my eyes, returning my attention to the task at hand, decorating the Christmas tree.

Did you think I was going to stand there and watch them sucking face?

Are you crazy? That kind of thing is gross, I shuddered, wrinkling my nose in distaste.

Over the years, I've outgrew that thinking. I'm 21 year old now and I think kissing a girl, especially a girl you love like my father did my mother, is simply heaven.

And I will add that I do have a girlfriend, Debra Watson. She's the daughter of a preacher, and I'm head over heels in love with her. I'm thinking someday I'd like to marry her, but I haven't asked her yet.

But that's beside the point. We're talking about 5 year olds here. I was 5 years old when this incident occurred, and every 5 year old who has seen their parents kiss think it's gross.

"How did your audition go?" Lathal asked after gently disengaging from their exchange.

Here we go with the same charade. Again, I know Malan and Lathal Hamel were smart enough to know that I wasn't falling for that ruse.

But hey, if they wanted to play the game, I could do it just as well as them. After all, I am the son of an actor.

"OK," he said, his gaze flickered over to the spot where I was decorating the tree. "You two certainly have been busy while I was gone. It looks good over there."

Lathal found her man's hand and gently pulled him along with her as she made her way over to join me. She beamed, "Yes, Larry is a good little helper."

I rolled my eyes. Mom was back to her usual self. She was usually true to form whenever Dad was home.

Malan mused my short, wavy blond hair. "Well, I hope you saved something for me to do."

"There's always the lights," his wife's had a teasing gleam in her bluish-green pools as she pulled out the tangled strings of lights from the plastic bag they'd been stored in for the past year.

The amused look on his face matched hers.

"We left the lights for you because it's a job only you can do," Lathal finished sweetly.

His ringing laughter sounded like Santa's jolly chuckle. "Sure, just like the cooking."

My mother didn't say anything, but there was a glow in her eyes and a wisp of a crescent smile in the left corner of her lips, hinting at her appreciation. She enjoyed the teasing just as much as he did.

I looked at my mother and then my father. I felt like I was inside some personal and private joke that was only funny to them, but I didn't understand it.

What was the big deal? I shook my head at my head at them. My father usually put up the lights and did the cooking so why was my mother teasing him about it?

Parents are strange, I thought convinced. But then again when aren't they?

Clearing my throat, my big, wide chocolate eyes appealed to them. "Mom, Dad, am I going to get to visit with Santa so I can tell him what I want for Christmas?"

Just like the audition excuse, suggesting a visit to Santa was secret kid lingo for I want to buy Christmas presents for you, Mommy and Daddy, so I need to go shopping.

"Sure," Mom said with ease. "We'll go to the mall tomorrow afternoon after I get off work if you want to."

Directing my attention to my father, I asked, "Can you take me before that?"

Dad frowned, "What does a kid need that he can't get in one trip to the mall?"

My father hated going to the mall, especially around the holidays. He hated the crass commercialism that seemed to abound in every store. It seemed like businesses didn't know what true meaning of the season. They started selling their Christmas inventory months before, so it wasn't even special anymore.

He also hated the crowds. He couldn't stand all the pushing and shoving. People were fighting each other just to obtain the perfect gift for their child, spouse or family member or friends -- it was disgusting.

"Dad," I hissed, stamping my foot insistently.

"Oh," he said, the word lingered on his lips for a long moment.

The light bulb had finally come on.

He winked, "Gotcha."

Tugging on the long sleeve of my mother's pink blouse, I asked, "What did you want for Christmas, Mom?"

Her bluish-green eyes were bright. "When you talk to Santa, doesn't he want to know what you want for Christmas?"

"Yeah," I said, dragging the tip of my Kermit the Frog slippers across the carpet. "But sometimes he asks what my parents want too."

"Well," Lathal said, ushering me over to the couch, where we sat down together. "You know my favorite things -- the color blue, animals, roses, Star Wars collectibles, books, antiques, theater, photography." She paused, thinking for a moment before continuing. "But you don't have to buy me anything. You could make me something and I'd love it just the same."

I expelled a heavy sigh. Mom said politicians often tended to dodge journalist's questions and now she was doing the same thing.

Dad had already joined us on the couch and sat opposite of me. Clearing his throat, he gently interjected himself into the conversation. "You know," he said, draping his left arm across the cushions. "I can't get her to tell me what she wants either."

She frowned, "I might add that you've been as bad as me in that regard." She tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. "I don't need anything. I have everything I need right here."

Before we had a chance to point out that she was still avoiding the issue, she rose and returned her attention to the task of decorating the tree, a clear indication that the matter was closed.