I NEVER KNEW SANTA CLAUS

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...