I don’t remember much about the person of Santa Claus when I was a little kid. I’m sure I sat on the Big Man’s lap in downtown Rike’s department store toy department once or twice, but my aging brain can’t conjure up any real details.
I seem to recall a slight feel of dread about the Old Boy, though. I mean, the guy had the secret power to assess what kind of kid I was: good or bad. That’s heavy, you know? I was raised to be a good Catholic boy and trust me, I know all about guilt. I thought I was doing okay, but what did I know? What ended up under the Christmas tree with my name on it would be the true assessment of my kid behavior.
One memory remains, I think, from my earliest of days. I was in my crib looking out through the side rail slats through the darkened bedroom into the night-lit hallway. It was the night before Christmas and could swear I heard real jingle bells out in the living room.
Did I really? I doubt it. I have concluded since that many of my earliest memories are really combinations of things that might have happened and subsequent recurring dreams that have now melded together into a new kid reality.
I write about this today because of grandson Noah’s loss of his belief in Santa Claus. He’s ten years old, and reality and disbelief have caught up with him. He asked us last year about Santa Claus being real, and in a flash of insecurity, I deferred the response to Grammy.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘do you get presents from Santa Claus?’
‘Yes,’ he responded.
‘Then there’s a Santa Claus.’
I don’t think he was convinced, but he didn’t ask again. This year his ten year-old brain made its own conclusion and he confirmed it with his mother just the other day. For him, one more vestige of childhood has been lost.
Santa Claus always was a big deal at my house growing up. Mom and Dad ended up having seven kids, for pete’s sake. And then there was the dark December evening when I was six or seven or something when I distinctly remember seeing Santa looking in the corner of our front picture window checking on us. We went nuts! I mean, I really saw Santa! I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about the excitement, but he had stepped out of the house briefly to run over to the local party supply for a six pack or something. When he got back, he seemed pretty excited about the sighting too.
It was years later that I learned that my very own father had a great red suit of his own and was, in fact, Santa Claus in the flesh. When we buried him in 1999, Mom celebrated the fact that he had played Santa for lots of kids for over fifty years. Fifty years! I’ve always loved my dad, but knowing he personally spread the idea of Christmas giving to so many young people deepened my respect for the man. Such a guy.
As we kids got older, some of us were able to participate in Dad’s own personal Santa institution. I remember one wet Christmas Eve driving him around in the rain, stopping by three or four homes where he made his grand front-door entrance and passed out gifts and toys to his friends, their kids, and their grandkids. I waited patiently in the car while he worked his seasonal magic. On other occasions, my youngest sister, Susie, accompanied him to parties in her cute little red Santa’s Helper outfit and assisted with excited kids while Santa did his thing.
And then last night, one more Santa story that brings my dad’s Santa legacy full circle. Cindy and I went to a local funeral home to visit a former colleague who has just lost his mother. Steve was a good friend when we both began teaching in the early 70s. We camped together a few times and drank a few late night beers playing cards on more than one occasion. Cindy, in fact, dated Steve for a time back in the old days when we all were younger and some of us single. Steve has since moved on to Oregon and made a family. It was good to see him again.
I recognized one of the women in his family group. I knew she was a former student, but I couldn’t remember her name. When Cindy and I didn’t recognize Steve in the viewing room, I went up to this girl and asked if Steve had made it in from Portland. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘let me show you.’
I told her I was an old teacher friend and when I mentioned my name, her mouth fell open. She put down what she was carrying and gave me the biggest hug. She was, indeed, Denise, a former student who had ended up marrying Steve’s brother thirty years ago. Before we left, we laughed at a few Mr. Schaefer stories she remembered from her junior high days when I was a rookie teacher and faculty advisor to drama club. Trust me, I didn’t know much what I was doing way back then, but we all seemed to have a pretty good time and from the sound of things, at least one important lesson was learned.
Denise finished with a Christmas story she remembered I told all those years ago. Somewhere along the line, I was talking about Santa. I know we did at least one Christmas play in drama club. Maybe it was during a rehearsal for Dust of the Road. In any case, I made a point to the group about the spirit of giving that is manifested in the institution of Santa Claus. However I said it, Denise took it to heart. She said she always remembered it and, in fact, made the same point to her own children. My thoughts had become part of her own family’s tradition.
My simple remark born of my father’s work at being Santa Claus continues to ripple through at least one family touched by a young teacher a couple generations ago. I can’t think a better testimony to the institution of Santa Claus than that.
Her story is one beautiful Christmas gift I got early this year.
Today’s elder idea: I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six. Mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.
Shirley Temple Black
Child star of Miracle on 34th Street
Image: We all bought Dad Santa statues back in the day to celebrate one of the real joys of his life. Since Dad was a fisherman, too, this Santa was always special for me. It’s now part of my collection.
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