She had hoped her older sons would do the dirty work she’d put off doing since last Christmas.Each year the mother of three decorated her house, set out a manger, baked cookies. There was a feast that ended with plum pudding.

Year after year, those holiday obligations fell upon her alone.

Yet there was one particular chore she had avoided: telling the baby of the family that she’d been lying about Santa Claus.

He’d heard the rumors on the playground, of course, but refused to listen. He had a lot invested in whole North Pole and reindeer thing.

Leading up to the holidays each year, he would make a point of turning conspicuously good – good for goodness sake. His wish list to Santa grew exponentially.

Now seventy-two years later, he still recalls exactly when and where “The Talk” took place.

His mother picked him from school to get new shoes and then an ice cream at the drug store. She’d parked the Plymouth in a metered space just off the main drag.

She lit a cigarette, and there was no hiding the facial tic she suffered when she was nervous. She proceeded to tie herself in knots trying to explain why and how the truth can be “fudged” without it being a sin.

He embraced his mother’s explanation without question and then later went on to pursue a career in advertising.

That Christmas Eve, Mary and George Funk came over from next door, and as always they brought the expensive boxed chocolates people without kids have laying around the house. He called first dibs on the ones with nuts.

“The Christmas Carol” came on at 10 p.m. and the boy was allowed to stay up with the adults to watch it to the end. He curled up on the couch next his mom who, for whatever reason, fell asleep during the opening title. He would fill her in on what she’d missed the next morning.

The man surprised his wife by offering to do the cooking every other week. He’d been listening to public radio.Barely an evening went by without someone telling her how wonderful her kitchen smelled. But they weren’t allowed to ask what was on the menu before dinner was served.

Her husband always washed the dishes. It was an arrangement both of them found comfortable.

One evening he surprised her by offering to do the cooking every other week. “It’s only fair,” he said. He’d been shamed by a domestic-equity expose on NPR.

He had recipes from his single days but he was determined to expand his repertoire beyond ground beef. To his credit he never resorted to emergency scrambled eggs.

He learned from The Food Network which spices combine to add depth and subtlety. His wife had a lazy-Susan filled with of seasonings. How hard could this be?

The woman shopped for weekly specials. Unfortunately he wasn’t capable of planning an entire week’s menu so he ran out every several days and bought things she already had in the refrigerator.

Another complication was that she could fit an array of utensils into very tight quarters. He was never able to crack her algorithm, after he took things out they wouldn’t go back in.

Family etiquette didn’t allow her to complain about the meals he served, so she started to critique the pans he chose to fry things. She complained when he dirtied test bowls before finding the right size. She challenged his presentation skills.

Finally, she flatly refused to wash some pots he had burnt. Since doing the dishes was her job when he cooked, she was now in blatant violation of their new contract.

“Okay, I quit,” he said. “I’m not cooking anymore…AND IT SERVES YOU RIGHT!!!!”

The woman turned away to hide her smile. What she didn’t want her husband to realize was how desperately she wanted him out of her kitchen.

And he was more than happy to play along. What he didn’t want her to know is how much he wanted things to get back to the way they used to be, back before NPR nearly destroyed their happy home.

People at a coffee shopGennifer decides to take the plunge.

We like to complain here at our corner coffee shop. Like people everywhere we ask why, don’t “they” do something about the potholes, economic development, residential density, etc. etc.?

Well, at least one person among us has decided to do something, to become one of “them.”

Even in a well-mannered suburban village running for elected office is not for the faint of heart. The first step is getting on the ballot.

Gennifer Geer secured nearly double the signatures needed to qualify by articulating her vision for the city. And as she continues to listen to constituents on various issues, those ideas will evolve.

If elected Gennifer would represent around 8600 residents in a ward of historic homes and apartments dating back to the Civil War.

The retirement of a seven-term councilwoman offers an opportunity to explore fresh, new ideas and to evaluate policies long on the books. A previous city council proclaimed the village to be a “nuclear-free zone.” (Chuckle if you wish, but so far it’s worked out surprisingly well. We’re still here.)

Gennifer advocates for fiscal sobriety, green spaces, bike lanes and charging stations. She believes that participatory budgeting and rank-choice voting may offer promise.

She jokes that running for office has made her more visible and that she’s staying on her best behavior. When impassioned public hearings drag on past midnight – it happens – a sense of humor like hers can come in handy.

You may want to stop in to share a chat and cup of coffee with the candidate. She’s more than little personable, and she may soon be the one you’ll call when a fallen limb blocks your back alley.