This column originally appeared on 12/12/04 in the Grand Island Independent.
SPOILER ALERT!!! Small children should not be allowed to read this column!
Not that many of them could. But just in case there are a few young phonetically geared wizards out there, I don't want to spoil Christmas for them. Because today I am going to discuss one of the greatest legends of our childhood: Santa Claus.
I still remember the day my mother broke the news, along with my heart. "Santa is only a myth," she told me.
"I thought he was a mythter," I said.
"No. A myth," Mom explained, "is like a legend, an amazing story that's been told about someone down through the years, but it turns out it's not a true story."
"In other words," I said, helping Mom through this tragic parental ordeal, "there's no Santa Claus."
"Bingo!"
It came as no surprise. Like most children who had reached the age of reason, I was finding that the fable of the jolly fat man from the North Pole was getting harder and harder to swallow with each passing Christmas season.
As children growing up in a holiday-minded town in Iowa, my friends and I were well schooled in the Santa doctrine. We were firm believers in old Kris Kringle, and the "naughty or nice" routine kept us on the straight and narrow. For parents, it was like having an imaginary cop to keep their kids in line for at least the better part of five weeks.
Now, we also understood the concept of fake Santas, having encountered
several along the way. We could always tell if a department store Santa
Claus was the real deal
or not. This gift of instant identification came easily for us Santa
experts.
As I recall it, Santa Claus hung out in the entrance to a downtown store
every Wednesday and Friday afternoon in December. As soon
as school let out, we raced the two blocks to Anthony's
Department Store where he was handing out giant-sized Milky Way
candy bars. Santa, not Anthony. Come to think of it, I'm not sure
Anthony really existed.
We instantly decided that Anthony's Santa was THE Santa Claus. It was like staring into the face of a prophet. His suit, his beard, his sleigh-side manner were perfect. And the candy bars were free!
There were other Santas in other stores who were merely cheap
imitations, not even fit to sweep reindeer crap off Rudolph's stable
floor. The actors weren't fat enough, their suits were faded and their
belly laughs lacked Christmas spirit. Frankly, their "ho-ho-ho-ing" had less ho's
than a brothel.
One fellow who tried to pass himself off as Santa Claus left his post outside of a store and crossed the street to the courthouse square where he, in full view of us kiddies, wandered into a public restroom. That did it for us!
"He's not the real Santa Claus,"we agreed. "Everyone knows that Santa doesn't pee."
Probably the most entertaining Santa from my childhood was in another Iowa town. That community had a street corner Claus who rang a bell and gleefully handed out penny candies to passing children.
This Santa was portrayed by the son of one of the city policemen and he
was so gleeful because he'd had a stiff snootful of whiskey prior to
reporting for duty. That explained why he staggered up and down Main Street, and his season's greeting was loud
and slurred and sounded like "Mrrry Clissy!" He was also the very first Santa I saw who threw up in his sack.
I know it was tough on my mother when she had to tell me there was really no Santa Claus. Years later, it was just as difficult for me to explain to my sons that the "jolly old elf" was a fabrication.
Although we walk our children through the Santa ritual to create for them joy and happiness in the Christmas season -- and I would never go back and undo that -- I still managed to feel as though a trust had been broken between parent and child when it came time to own up to the fact that Santa was merely an invention.
When the day of reckoning had arrived for my oldest son, he was shattered.
"And I suppose there's no Easter Bunny?" he asked, tearing up.
"No, son."
"And no tooth fairy?" he continued. "No more money for lost teeth?"
"That will now go toward your deductible." Then, after careful thought, I said, "And you know those stories we've been telling you about God?"
"WHAAATTT? NO GOD, EITHER?"
"Just kidding," I said. I reassured him that all was well with the Man Upstairs.
I've been pondering the Santa Claus fable. It makes the God story even more incredible, since there's no image, no tangible evidence, not even a staggering fake God who throws up in his sack. In a world of war and poverty, pandemics and grief, hate and hardship, it's astounding that billions continue to nurture an unshakeable belief in a Being in charge, silent and unseen. Especially considering how that absolutely wondrous red-suited man of our childhood Christmas dreams is only a myth.
Or is he?
Copyright 2004 by Wendel Potter
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