Many memories are evoked when I see a Santa Claus. There were the days when I was little and believed in the jolly, old elf. On Christmas Eve, I kept Dad company in the barn while he did the evening milking so Santa could come–I was one of his first stops. Mom never saw the man in the red suit enter our living room through the front door and leave my gifts under the tree. She was busy in the kitchen preparing supper for my aunt, uncle and cousins who would join us at 7 p.m. for the meal and gift exchange.
I never wrote a letter to Santa but my parents always took me to a department store so I could tell him what I wanted. Of course, I mentioned my desires many times at home so they had no doubt what I hoped to find under the tree.
I was a second-grader but no longer believed in Santa when Dad was drafted to play the part. Our teacher was boarding with us because we lived next door to the one-room building making it an easy walk to work for the gray-haired lady. For our school Christmas party, her brother planned to don the costume, but he was sick at the last minute. When she approached Dad to take his place, my father couldn’t turn her down, much as he wanted to. When he entered the classroom with a, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” a preschooler was scared and dove under the sandbox, which stood on tall legs. Even the offering of a gift didn’t lure him from his sanctuary.
There were the years, our three children believed in Santa. Ken spent many late Christmas Eves opening the boxes that were emblazoned “some assembly required.” The kids were always up early the next morning to find their gifts waiting under the tree.
One year, we were hosting the Christmas Day gathering for Ken’s sister, brother and their families when Santa visited our house. I can still see the looks of wonder on the faces of our grandnieces and nephews when the fat man with the white beard walked in our front door.
With no small children in our family now, we have no visitor on Christmas Eve except in memory.
Did you believe in Santa when you were little?