"Magic me some candy!  Magic me some candy!"

It was the call from every corner of the house. Word spread fast that it was snowing and every Dehmer kid in the house knew what that meant.

Daddy would hem and haw, and act like he didn't want to do it, but the six kids jumping, freaking out,  and hollering all around him would, in the end, convince him that it was something he just had to do.  After all, we knew the rules.   

"Daddy!  It's snowing!  You know what that means?" we would shout, every first snowfall of the season.  One of The Rules of "Magic-ing Candy" was that it had to be snowing and there had to be snow on the ground. 

Set down, years before, by Santa himself, we couldn't think about breaking the rules!  Daddy would reluctantly calm us kids down, get us to gather around on the floor, and begin the story:

"Back when I was a little boy, just about the age you are now, I wanted to see what Santa Claus looked like.  So, one Christmas Eve, I sneaked downstairs…"

"Daddy, Daddy!  Why did you do that?  Didn't Santa get mad?  Didn't he not leave presents?" I would ask.

"Now, who's telling this story?  Okay… so I snuck down those big stairs and peeked around the corner," he continued. "Santa was there!  He was putting presents for everyone under the tree!"

Our eyes bugged out of our heads.  Santa, the Santa, was seen by human eyes and it was our very own Daddy who had seen him!  Oh, we couldn't believe it, yet, we did believe it and wanted to hear more.

"Then what?" we all said, crawling and wiggling around on the floor in our new, winter nighties and pajamas.  Three girls and three boys not fighting, not arguing, not creating a ruckus, not being naughty, all listening for the next lines that most of us already knew by heart. With lots of little ones, the story was always new for somebody, and us older ones knew the effect of a little extra added drama.  We learned from the master!

"Oh!  I watched Santa do his job, then he walked out the front porch door.  I followed him and he suddenly turned around and called my name!"

"Oh, no!" we all exclaimed. Our jaws dropped, we all hid behind our hands and squealed with delight.  How could it be that Santa actually knew Daddy's name? It was terrible, and awful, and wonderful.

"Oh, yes!  He called my name. 'Johnny, come here,' he said.  He showed me the thing I needed to know.  He showed me how to magic candy and then he sprinkled stardust (which, as everyone knows, is the sparkly, light snow that shimmers in the moonlight and rests on the very top of the snow cover) on me.  Ever since then, I've been able to magic candy."

Six children would collectively gasp.

It was more than a group of candy-starved children could stand. 

"O.K. Now, Daddy. Magic us some candy!" we would yell.

"O.K. Here we go."  Daddy would say, acting as if he wasn't sure it would work this time, "Everyone, close your eyes."

Snap.  Six pairs of eyes shut tight.  No peeking.  Peeking would automatically cause the magic to not work.  Hands covered closed eyes as insurance against the temptation because we all  knew if someone dared to peek, we could spend precious seconds looking for candy that wouldn't be there and we'd spend even MORE precious seconds accusing each other of being the "peek-er".  We all had to do our part to make sure THAT never happened. 

"Aberacadabera…", Daddy would start.

 "Aberacadabera…" we would repeat.

 "Oolycabooly…" he'd continue.

 "Oolycabooly…" we'd continue.

 "Magic some candy…"

Oh my gosh, we were almost ready! 

"Magic some candy…"

This next part was always the climax of the whole event.  This part was the defining moment of the whole incantation!  This part was the location of the magic-ed candy and whoever heard/guessed correctly, and whoever ran the fastest to said location, would have the actual magic candy in their very hands. It was almost too much to bear.

"…under the…'stooly'?" He'd always say that last part with a question mark, as if he wasn't quite sure where he'd found the words.  We just knew it had to be true because of this.  But, if someone had peeked, we'd know soon enough!

One child would run to the nearest stool/toilet/picture of anything looking like a "stooly."  It might take a few times but eventually one of us would find the candy, give it to the magician, who would then dole it out to the ravenous kids.

Of course, you can see this magic daddy, Johnny Dehmer, who eventually became Santa, downtown at the St. Michael American Legion or the Corner Bar, many days of the week before the holidays. 

Now, instead of six kids, he has 22 grandkids to make squeal with delight. 

I'd even bet, if you have your children with you and you ask him, (and it's snowing with snow on the ground) that he'd magic you some candy, too.