Following is a reprint of my post from December 24, 2004…
My uncle Paul was a war hero. He was never recognized in that fashion by the world, but I know he was a war hero. He was a part of the greatest generation. He helped save the world during WWII. He was a fun loving man, a devoted father, brother, husband, son, uncle and friend to many. He died too young, probably from injuries and illnesses he received during the war. He was Santa Claus when I was a child. I didn’t know it then, but when I became a teen-ager I found out that he was Santa Claus. The last time he was Santa, I was ten years old. I remember that Christmas, specifically because that was the year my parents gave me a slot-car set. I don’t know why he stopped playing Santa. I know he didn’t always feel very well. Perhaps he merely wanted to pass the torch. My memories are becoming too foggy about these things. Twelve years ago when my son was 10, I gave him a slot-car set for Christmas. Oddly enough that year, my Aunt-Ann asked me to play Santa at our family’s traditional Christmas Eve celebration at her house. I have been Santa each year ever since. On Christmas Eve around 10pm, my cousin Laura will herd all the kids to the basement family room of Aunt-Ann’s home. Her brother and her husband will escort me to the second floor bedroom and help me change into my Santa suit. When I am ready and all the kids are out of the living room, I will go downstairs and out to the porch where I will wait until the kids are escorted back up to the living room. It amazes me that the little kids never question why they are being moved from floor to floor. But it is Christmas, and they are anxious to please, so they go. When they are all seated in the living room, someone will suggest singing a Christmas Carol. As this happens, I am standing on the porch and listen through the walls. Sometimes I peek through the window to watch my family. When I do, I see generations of love. I see tradition. I see time slipping by .I see memories in creation. When I get the signal from my cousin, I knock on the door and yell; “HO, HO, HO”. Then I make my grand entrance.
All the kids even the older ones sit on Santa’s lap and receive a small gift. Some of the adults sit on Santa’s lap. I am continually astounded by the fact that the kids can’t figure out who Santa is. Even my own children didn’t know until they were told. Maybe they choose not to know. My Mom always sits on Santa’s lap. He wishes her a happy birthday (She was born at 5pm on Christmas Day). She doesn’t see it, but Santa’s eyes are wet. When all of “the kids” have visited Santa we all sing another Christmas Carol then Santa exits through the front door wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. And that is it. My favorite, and the fastest 30 minutes of the year. Before I leave the porch, I look back through the window in the door…Though I hope I can play Santa for many more years, I know I will ultimately give it up to the next generation. I also know that whoever becomes Santa, will look back through the window and see the same things that I see; parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins, children, grandparents, and a war hero.
2006 footnote:
This is the first year that everyone is old enough to know who Santa is. We have only one new family member; Connor. Connor is my brother’s grandson. He is less than one year old, so Santa’s visit might be traumatic for him. None-the-less, Santa will visit just as sure as the sun will rise on Christmas morning. But Santa is magic…so who knows what else might occur…
