If you see Santa, tell him no hard feelings

SHERWOOD KIRALY

Tonight’s the night again. I don’t expect to see him, but I really

don’t mind.

I was one of those kids who don’t want to sit on Santa’s lap. It

was at Marshall Field’s in Chicago, lots of mothers, kids, noise. I

was about four, I guess; I was told to make my pitch while on his lap

and then jump; get on and get off. This was my first experience of

Christmas stress -- if the man had the powers they said he had, he

was capable of anything. If he didn’t like me he could cut me off for

life.

He wasn’t Bad Santa; he was genial and twinkly and full-bearded,

like Edmund Gwenn. I just didn’t know the man. I didn’t feel

comfortable with him. I fought and squirmed until I was carried away.

Looking at it from his viewpoint, I imagine I made his day a bit

longer.

So I didn’t try to stay awake and catch Santa coming down the

chimney on Christmas Eve. I was afraid he might recognize me.

The rest of our present household has a similar history. My

mother-in-law Carol has a photo of two-year-old Patti Jo on Santa’s

lap in mid-scream, the tears springing out of her eyes in two arcs,

as in an old comic strip. Patti Jo doesn’t recall the occasion, but

of course Santa always does.

When our daughter Katie was three or four, Patti Jo, now grown and

in a position of responsibility, invited Santa over to our house in

the fall to sign a contract for his appearance at the winter Sawdust

Festival.

His visit alarmed Katie, who wasn’t expecting Santa Claus at the

house in street clothes in September. He made an effort at small talk

but Katie wrapped herself in her invisibility cloak and retired

behind the couch in case it malfunctioned.

You have to admire the man for not holding a grudge; with such a

resistant family it’s amazing he ever showed up at all on Christmas

Eve, but during Katie’s growing-up years we sustained an unspoken

agreement with the old saint whereby we left a little something out

for him and he left something for her, and we just didn’t encounter

each other. On Christmas morning the cookies were usually gone and

there was a little piece of carrot left out back, dropped by Blitzen,

maybe. I always liked that name, Blitzen.

Santa stopped coming around after the kids reached a certain age,

for which you can hardly blame him. There are always new

pre-schoolers for him to think about. I for one began to want money

for Christmas in my 20s, and I know Santy don’t play that.

So we’re not expecting him tonight; we’re just going to get up in

the morning and exchange gifts. Looking back on Santa now, we have an

appreciation for him that we didn’t have when we were younger; we can

see he was patient with us.

I might leave a carrot out, just in case, and stay up an hour

later. I’d still like to see that Blitzen.