Being Santa Claus : What I Learned About the True Meaning of Christmas (9781101600528) Read online

  Do You Believe?

  OVER THE NEXT FEW CHRISTMAS SEASONS, my phone started ringing earlier and earlier in the year with requests for home visits. I was delighted! It became such fun, especially now that I’d perfected my private Santa appearances, right down to answering where my reindeer were parked and making a graceful exit once the kids were happily absorbed in unwrapping their toys.

  One morning in early November, I received a call from a woman who began the conversation in an unusual way: “I understand you’re a naturally bearded Santa,” she said.

  “Why, yes, I am a naturally bearded Santa,” I responded proudly.

  The woman continued, “My son is starting to not believe in Santa. We’ve had a few Santas come over to our house in the past, but they’ve always had fake beards. This year, he told me he’s noticed the fake beards all along, and he doesn’t think Santa exists. So I’m looking for someone with a real beard. I heard that you’re quite good with children and that you make a very believable Santa Claus.”

  It happens to every child at some point. Maybe an older sibling who has outgrown Santa or a too-big-for-their-britches classmate bursts their bubble. Sometimes the Christmas season doesn’t pan out as they’d hoped and they grow skeptical. Or maybe, like Kevin, they see a bit of unwelcome reality peeking out from under the magic and they’re not quite sure what or who to believe. Their little hearts are torn as they start to wonder, “Does Santa Claus really exist?”

  I wasn’t quite sure how I would convince Kevin that it was still worth it to believe in Santa Claus, but I knew I had to try. No matter their age, I believe that all children deep down want to believe; sometimes they just need a little help.

  “I’d be happy to come there,” I told Kevin’s mother. “When would you like me to visit?”

  “How about the week before Christmas. Are you available then?”

  “I have a few openings left, yes. But let me make a suggestion, if you wouldn’t mind. If possible, I’d like you to put together some information about what’s going on in Kevin’s life at the moment. The more Santa knows, the more real I’ll seem to him.”

  I’d started to do this frequently with home visits, ever since I saw how revealing that little detail of knowing the kids’ 8:30 bedtime had made such a difference my first time out. Whenever there was time, I’d ask parents to put together some notes that I could review about what their children had done recently: good grades on tests, accomplishments in sports, or even things they might have gotten in trouble for during the past few weeks…anything to make Santa seem like he knew all about them.

  With two weeks before the visit, Kevin’s mother had ample time to load me up with all sorts of details. I knew Kevin’s little brother was Patrick. I knew the names of all his grandparents, plus the names of his teacher, school principal, and Little League coach. I knew he misbehaved the week before at Chuck E. Cheese’s. I even knew that he had lost a tooth recently and how much the Tooth Fairy had left for him. I was ready.

  A few days before Christmas, I drove to a friendly little house in a nearby town. Seeing that Kevin’s parents had left the toys for him outside in a bag, I picked up the bag, walked to the front door, jingled some bells that I now carried with me, and gave a jolly “Ho, ho, ho!”

  Kevin’s mother opened the door and said, “Look who’s here!” I saw Kevin sitting in his pajamas in the living room watching television. As soon as he heard his mother, he turned toward me.

  “Santa!” he exclaimed. For a split second, he got that familiar look of awe and excitement—and then he froze. I could see the internal struggle on his freckled face. Half excited, half skeptical, Kevin eyed me warily as I went in and sat down on the sofa next to him.

  “Hi, Kevin,” I said warmly. I usually brought along some candy canes to hand out to children, so I gave him one.

  “Thanks,” Kevin said tentatively as he took it.

  “You know, Kevin, Mrs. Claus is friends with the Tooth Fairy, and they both tell me to remind kids to make sure they brush their teeth. That way, the Tooth Fairy won’t have to give you another fifty cents for a while like she did right after Thanksgiving.” Kevin looked surprised. How did Santa know how much the Tooth Fairy had given him, and when?

  Kevin wasn’t ready to let down his guard quite so easily. “Are you the real Santa?” he asked me abruptly, a serious expression on his young face.

  “Well, what do you think?” I asked.

  “We’ve had other Santas come to visit. But they weren’t the real one. I could tell because they had fake beards.”

  “You know, Kevin,” I said, smiling, “Santa Claus can’t be everywhere. So I have helpers who keep an eye out when I can’t. I also listen to what moms and dads tell me about how their children have been behaving. Your teacher, Mrs. Harris, will tell me if kids have acted up in class. Your principal, Mr. Patterson, tells me anytime a student is sent to his office. Even your Little League coach told me that you’re really enthusiastic and he’s proud of how well you play, but you really need to choke up on the bat when you swing.” Of course, Kevin’s coach had been telling him the very same thing, and I could see Kevin’s eyes open a little wider with each nugget of information Santa seemed to know about him.

  I saw Kevin looking intently at my beard, silently searching for a strap or glue. “You’re wondering if my beard is real, huh?” Kevin nodded. “Well go on and give it a little tug.”

  Very cautiously, Kevin reached up and lightly touched my beard. I said, “Oh, it’s okay. You can give it a proper tug.” And so Kevin pulled my beard, and I gave out a loud “Oop!”

  He immediately let go of my beard, and I said, “Ho, ho, ho! I’m just kidding around, Kevin! It didn’t hurt at all. As a matter of fact, that’s what helps it grow.”

  I could see the lingering doubt on Kevin’s face, and I knew I hadn’t completely convinced him that Santa was real. And then that magical, reliable Christmas inspiration kicked in. I put my hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “You know, Kevin, it’s okay to stop believing in Santa.”

  He looked shocked to hear me say this. “It is?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said reassuringly. “You see, Santa only visits children who believe in him. There comes an age where children start telling each other that there is no Santa Claus, and they stop believing. And that’s okay, because there are a lot of other children being born, and it gives me an opportunity to take care of them. Of course, when children stop believing in me, parents usually take over the job of getting the presents. But parents tend to be very practical about their gifts, so they start giving kids things like socks and underwear for Christmas.”

  When he heard this last piece of information, Kevin’s face went from dubious to panic-stricken, and he shouted loudly, “Oh, I still believe!”

  Over the following years, I would use the “as older kids stop believing in Santa, new ones are just starting to believe” concept with countless children who had begun to doubt the existence of Santa Claus. I’ll do everything I can to keep the magic and mystery of Santa alive for them.

  Children want and need to believe that wishes can come true; that’s part of the joy of childhood. Santa brings them hope. It’s empowering for them to think that there’s a system that rewards them for being good, that they have some ability to make their desires come to fruition. Otherwise it’s just their parents calling the shots, and parents have to say no all too often. Santa never says no. He just shows up with sparkles and smiles, larger than life, and says, “Maybe, if you’re good…” That’s pretty motivating stuff when you’re little!

  By the way, it’s pretty important to parents for their kids to believe, too. Most parents don’t want to see their children grow up too fast and leave behind that sense of wonder. Besides, what better tool is there for motivating good behavior than reminding their kids to be good because Santa is always watching?

  I love hearing stories from parents about the lengths they’ll go to in order to preserve their children’s b
elief in Santa. They’ll stay up until the wee hours on Christmas Eve assembling complicated bicycles, dollhouses, and electronic games so their children never guess the toys didn’t arrive fully assembled, via chimney express. Some parents go up into the attic or onto the roof to tromp around, making Santa-like noises. One family even told me they collect dog poop and place it on the lawn on Christmas Eve so their kids will think the reindeer were out there doing their business!

  To me, the longer a child believes in Santa Claus, the longer they hold on to their innocence, which is a very precious thing. The world these days is moving at the speed of light, and kids are forced to grow up faster than ever before. Children are exposed to so much, so soon (many six-year-olds I’ve met are more technologically savvy than their parents!), and they have challenging and complex problems at a much earlier age. Theirs is a complicated world, but Santa is simple. He doesn’t pressure them to do well on tests, or lecture them about table manners, or concern them with the scary stuff out there. Santa is the antidote to all of the stress on their little minds. He is pure love and happiness—a kind, smiling figure who delivers miracles wrapped in glittering tinsel, sprinkled with wonder. He lets kids stay kids just a little bit longer.

  And isn’t that what we all wish for our children?

  THE MAGIC OF BELIEVING DOESN’T JUST HAPpen for children. It can happen to adults, as well—and sometimes even to me.

  I was sitting in an airport terminal in Syracuse, New York, one day, on my way home from a meeting as part of my non-Santa job. I had a rare few minutes to myself, so I opened up a newspaper and settled in to read a bit. I wasn’t halfway through the first page when I heard a squeaky little voice coming from the other side of the pages. “Hi, Santa!”

  Putting down the paper, I saw a little blonde cutie-pie, perhaps six or seven years old, with curly hair and two blue eyes fixed squarely on me. She didn’t seem at all nervous or even hesitant.

  I smiled at her and said, “Hello there.”

  “It’s me, Katie. Do you remember me?”

  I’d never seen this little girl before in my life, but I knew she believed she was in the presence of Santa Claus, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. “Oh, sure, Katie. How are you doing?”

  “I’ve been really good this year!” she said confidently.

  “Oh, that’s great,” I said.

  Katie continued, “My sister Julia is going to come over here and tell you that she’s been good, too, but she hasn’t been as good as me. And you see baby Tabitha over there?” She pointed to an infant being cradled by a woman sitting nearby. “Since Mama brought Tabitha home from the hospital, she hasn’t done anything but poop and cry, so she doesn’t deserve anything this year!”

  I’d learned by then to expect the unexpected from children, but sometimes one would say something that made it hard not to burst into laughter. Fortunately, being Santa Claus comes with a built-in way of handling such situations. “Ho, ho, ho!” I chuckled merrily.

  Then Katie’s sister Julia sauntered over to join the conversation. “Hi, Santa,” she said, as if she’d just walked into her living room at home and seen a familiar friend. And just as Katie predicted, she, too, announced that she’d been good all year.

  “But not as good as me!” Katie made sure to say.

  I gave out another “Ho, ho, ho!” and added, “Look, I know you’re both trying to be as good as you can be. But do you wanna do Santa a favor to make sure you have a really great Christmas?”

  They both perked up and said, “Sure!”

  “Well,” I continued in a lowered voice, leaning in close to them, “I’m guessing that ever since Mama brought home little Tabitha from the hospital, she’s had to pay a lot of attention to her. And your mom is probably pretty tired. So what I want you girls to do is to be especially good and help out around the house. You know, like pick up your dishes and bring them into the kitchen, keep your rooms clean, and make sure that you don’t get on your mother’s nerves.”

  “Okay,” they said in unison.

  “So, girls.” I looked at them both in the eye. “Do you think your mom wants you two wandering away from her in a busy airport?”

  “Probably not,” Katie said.

  “Well, I think it’s time you went back to your mom and waited with her until your plane takes off. Okay?”

  “Okay, Santa,” they both said. “Bye-bye.”

  I waved and then went to pick up my newspaper to continue reading it.

  “That was so cute!” The voice came from a middle-aged woman sitting across from me.

  I looked at her and smiled. “That’s what I do.”

  “It’s almost like you’re the real Santa,” she mused.

  “Maybe I am,” I said with a wink, and went back to my newspaper.

  A few minutes later, the airline began boarding our flight. I stood in the line slightly ahead of the middle-aged woman. Back then, photo IDs were checked at the gate before boarding. So I handed the flight attendant my driver’s license, she looked at it and passed it back to me, and I started walking toward the Jetway. Then I heard that same woman behind me ask the flight attendant, “What was the name on his ID?”

  I paused a moment, leaning back to hear the answer.

  “Santa Claus,” she replied matter-of-factly. I glanced over at the attendant, and as the woman walked past her, the attendant turned to me and gave me a thumbs-up and a big grin.

  My seat was on the aisle in row 3. So most of the rest of the passengers—perhaps a hundred or so—had to walk past me on their way to their seats. Some of them did little double takes as they went by. I’ve always found this interesting, how adults act around me. It’s so funny that even when I’m not in costume, they’ll react.

  As the aircraft started to taxi away from the gate, the pilot’s voice came over the speaker, telling us the flight duration and weather conditions. And then he said, “I’m told we have a famous celebrity on board with us today, and I’d like to extend a special welcome to him.”

  My ears perked up, as I wondered what famous person might be flying from the middle of upstate New York. The captain continued, “You may have recognized him as you walked onto the plane. So everyone should try to be good, because I’m sure he’s making his list.”

  And then I realized the pilot was talking about me. I assumed that the flight attendant had told the cockpit crew what happened at the gate, and I smiled to myself.

  A short while later, after the plane took off and beverages had been served, the flight attendant who had checked my ID at the gate walked over to my seat.

  “Here,” she said, handing me a stack of napkins with a mischievous smile. “These are for you.”

  “What are these?” I asked.

  “Letters to Santa,” she beamed. “Some of the passengers wrote their Christmas wishes down on their napkins and asked me to give them to you. Then some others overheard and wanted to do it, too. Pens got passed around, and I promised everyone I would make sure you got them all.”

  From my earliest days handing out charity presents for the toy drive in South Carolina, people would give me letters that children had written to Santa Claus. Sometimes the parents would give them to me, and I imagine they never really thought about what happened to the letters after they handed them over. In fact, they probably assumed I just threw them away. But I never did—and I still don’t. They contain children’s innermost wishes, and I could never bring myself to simply toss their letters aside or throw them in the trash. So I’ve read each and every letter to Santa that I’ve ever been given.

  But as I sat there on the plane, I breathed in this surreal moment of getting handed letters to Santa written entirely by adults. I put on my reading glasses and looked at this stack of napkins with scribbled notes on them. What would grown-ups ask Santa for?

  Of course, many people wanted a winning lottery ticket, trips to Hawaii, that sort of thing. One man wrote, “My wife is starting a small business, and she’d really appreciate it i
f you could bring her a new copy machine.”

  Some of the letters made me laugh. One of them said, “Don’t want much. A yacht and my own private island would be just fine.”

  And then there were a few that touched my heart. One said, “Santa, my son is fighting in Afghanistan. Please bring him back home safely to me.” Another woman asked that she and her husband be blessed with a child. There were quite a few that asked for a family member to get well, or to find their soul mate, or for peace on earth. I read every letter. I would likely never get to know anyone who was on that plane personally—or even learn their names—but for one special moment, I shared something truly wonderful with all those people.

  Did these adults actually believe I was Santa Claus? Well, who can really say? But I don’t think that’s what this was all about. I’ve never been able to explain the phenomenon of adults loving Santa, but I have a theory that seeing me jogs happy memories. I think a lot of us wish we could be children again, becoming breathless with Christmas excitement and believing with all our hearts that wishes can come true. I know I do! I think every grown-up wants to recapture that sense of wonder, even for a moment. And that’s exactly what Santa Claus allows them to do.

  YOU’RE NEVER TOO OLD TO EXPERIENCE CHRISTmas magic.

  There are those among us who might think that perhaps their time for believing in fairy tales such as Santa is behind them. That is, until a spark of Christmas enchantment brings up all the warmth and cheer of a special holiday memory from long ago.

  A grandmother once asked me to come to her home to do for her grandson Joshua what I’d done for Kevin: restore his belief in Santa. Joshua’s older brother had reached the age where he and his friends started saying that Santa Claus wasn’t real, and Joshua began believing it, too. So, much as I did with Kevin, I visited Joshua’s home and told him all about how older children stop believing so younger ones could fill their spots, and once he heard that parental gifts like socks and underwear might be the presents under his future Christmas tree, he was back on board. But for some reason, that day, I didn’t stop there. Call it what you will—Santa’s sixth sense, or a flash of Christmas inspiration—but something else suddenly popped into my mind, and I found myself telling the following story almost before I even realized it.