I was never taught that Santa
Claus was a real person who rode in a sled bearing gifts for good children,
sliding down the chimney at night. For
one thing, we didn't have a man-sized chimney.
Even an elf would have wound up in our wood stove instead of an open
fireplace, so that part of the story fell through even if my parents were
inclined to tell me this lie. I was a
child of dual cultures, although it is seldom expressed this way. I lived in a community off Highway 211 where
my mother's people were Seventh-Day Adventists.
Some of them barely tolerated Christmas because its traditions were a
mishmash of several religion's festivals and, therefore, not considered purely
Christian.
Most of my mother's community did
tolerate Christmas. We had a Christmas
tree in the foyer of our church/school house, we drew names at school for
gifts, and we always had a Christmas play where every year I hoped to be chosen
for the part of Mary and never was. When
I was very small, I was one of the adorable line of angels in paper halos
covered with gold glitter who paraded down the aisle with candles dripping on
paper candleholders. Later, due to the shortage of boys at the small country
school (grades 1-8 in one room, one teacher), I was drafted to serve as a shepherd. I rather got into the role, proudly stomping
around, carrying a crooked staff (or a close approximation.)
We always had a Christmas tree in
our house, beautifully decorated by my mother, and always Christmas gifts
although there was no hanging the stocking by the chimney with care. (no chimney, no money to fill a sock with
extras.) One of my favorite Christmas eve
memories is of spinning merrily with my arms outstretched in pure glee -- right
into the Christmas tree. My mother didn't
scold me since I didn't break anything and tipped the tree only a little bit.
My father's people, across the
marsh near Delco, weren't Adventist, and they embraced all aspects of
Christmas. Nativity scenes melded with
Santa Clauses and I was aware that my little cousins on that side of the family
actually seemed to believe that Santa Claus was not only comin' to town, but that
he was coming way out into the woods where we all lived, none of us with a
working fireplace, but comin' just the same.
My mother turned up her nose at such silliness. She made it clear from the minute I heard the
name Santa Claus that he was just another fairy tale, same as Mother Goose. My mother wasn't an especially religious
Adventist, so I don't think her objection to Mr. Claus was religiously
based. Her reasoning was simple and
practical:
Every gift under that tree was
acquired through hard work, scrimping, and sacrifice, and the idea that some
bozo in a red suit would get all the credit was outrageous. Children should know, said my mother, that
their parents were the givers.
Despite the fact that Santa Claus
was nobody in our house, Christmas was still exciting. My parents concealed larger parcels until
Christmas morning, and one Christmas when we were house-sitting a friends'
hotel (long story there), I was banned from going upstairs for several weeks
while my parents merrily and secretly rode my new English Racer down the long
upstairs hallway. We didn't need Santa,
and I never missed him, although there turned out to be a downside to this for my mother one December day in downtown Wilmington. That was the day that she suddenly
got it into her head that it would be cute to have a photo made of me sitting
in a storefront Santa's lap. I knew his
visage from drawings and wrapping paper, but Santa in the flesh was an alien
concept to me. Mother pushed me toward
his bearded form before I knew what was what.
"It's just Santa!" urged my mother when I balked. "Santa Claus!"
But Santa had no reality for me,
and certainly no appeal. I was causing such a scene that she had to give up the
idea. Later, I recall that she patiently
explained to me all about costumed Santas, and that it was just a cute way to
take Christmas photo. So the next year,
I willingly approached the bearded man and had my picture taken although I was
perplexed when he asked me what I wanted for Christmas. That wasn't a question that adults usually
asked me, although my mother would give me a fair hearing on the matter,
usually explaining to me why we couldn't afford a swing set or a dollhouse.
One year, though, they got me the
Jumping Shoes I craved. They were bright
red strap-ons with springs, and I eagerly tried them out, expecting to fly over
the roof. But alas, the shoes wouldn't
budge because I didn't have enough weight to make an impression on the springs. Still, I'll never forget the wonder of the
illustration of an airborne kid, and the thrill of opening the package and
realizing that my parents had somehow managed to purchase my dream.
I never felt that our Christmases
lacked something by not having Santa central to the secular side of it. For me, it was every bit as wonderful to have
gifts from my parents, family, and friends as it would have been to have gifts
hauled in from the North Pole. In fact,
I have always wondered about the breach of trust involved when children learn
that their parents lied. There are
enough lies floating around in families that we surely don't need a Santa Claus
lie on top of it all.
However, from my observation of
families who lie about Santa, no one seems to suffer permanent damage from that
particular lie. It appears that it is a
sort of rite of passage when a child realizes that Santa is a fairy tale. Along with the disillusionment comes the privilege
of stepping into the knowing circle of older people, and the merry mischief of
fooling the little kids.
I get that, I really do, I think...
I get that, I really do, I think...
