In the early 1950s my father lost his last job in the mines.
He was in his early 50s and unable to find work. He picked up odd jobs here and
there, and that, plus money my mother earned in a factory, kept a roof over our
head (we did have a few holes in the walls and windows) and basic food on the
table.
Money was hard to come by.
For several Christmases during that time, around the first
of December, my daddy would say, “Well, things are really tight this year; if
Santa Claus don’t come, we won’t have Christmas.” He said this seriously. I
took him seriously. I was ready to get nothing. It was OK. The Methodist Church
provided me the songs and festivities, and the religious trappings were
emotionally and spiritually stimulating. I can still smell the pine and candle,
and can still feel what it was like to put on white robes and sing Christmas
songs with the choir.
My parents did not go to church so we did not share these
experiences. My parents did like Christmas, though, and we had a tree,
decorated with old trimmings that brought tears to my momma’s eyes as she
remembered Christmas with her parents and brothers and sisters and with my two
older sisters.
But money was always a problem, and Santa Claus was always
seen as the answer to the problem.
Every year, sometime around December 23 or 24, my father
would go to Household Finance and borrow money. Every year he’d go to a
bootlegger and buy a couple of half-pints of whiskey for his own spirits and
our entertainment—I’ll leave that to another day. Every year he’d tell my
sister to figure out what it was that I wanted (as well as her two kids, Karen
and George), take the HFC money, and go buy the Santa presents, or as close as
possible, given money constraints.
It never was much, but I still appreciate the idea, even
though I understand that my father spent the next year paying back the money he
had borrowed, resulting in him and my momma having to scrimp on other things.
Every year Santa Claus came to my house, and to Karen and
George’s house. And it was always magical.
So, I never admitted to “not believing” in Santa Claus until
I was about 10 years old.
As these memories come to mind, I’m wondering about Santa
Claus.
Last Saturday I attached a pillow around my waist (pillow
gets smaller each year), donned the famous red suit, hair, beard, boots, belt,
hat, glasses and attitude and went to Zahn Financial Services in Golden,
Colorado. I have been Santa there every year for the past five years or so.
There are a few kids who have shown up each year, so I’ve watched them grow
over that time. Each time I dress in that costume and sit by the decorated tree
handing out small gifts, I see the magic expressed in the eyes of the young
kids, and the very real desire of the nine and ten year olds to bring back the
magic.
I wonder if most of us who grew up as
I did have spent their lives trying to recreate the magic brought on by Santa
Claus.
I wonder how much money Christian zealots have made trying
to convince us that they have the keys to this magic.
And I wonder how much money fathers and mothers have
borrowed and spent trying to keep the magic alive.
But mainly, at this time of the year, particularly, even as
I wonder about these things, I am grateful to my parents, and my sister, for
showing me the magic of Santa Claus, and the gift of giving that embodies the season of Christmas.
