When I was in the 3rd grade, much of the discussion among my school buddies at Christmas time was on whether or not each of us still believed in Santa Claus. For me, the experience was heart wrenching.
“Of course Santa exists,” I remember thinking. I even recall there was at least one fist fight with my bitterest third grade rival, Kerry Simmerson. One day walking home from school I had heard enough about how Santa did not exist and anger grew to pushing, pushing grew to shoving, and shoving grew to punches being thrown. I did not win the fight; my oldest brother did when he jumped in and laid waste to Kerry Simmerson – but that is another story.
This story is about how I had to go home and tell my mom I got into a fight over whether or not Santa Claus existed. I was petrified to do so because as a child in my mother's home, and in fact it is true to this very day for children and grandchildren alike, one did not question the existence of Santa. So to even admit that I had been engaged in fisticuffs over the issue was to admit that people in my peer group were questioning.
I remember my mom sitting in the kitchen in our old Sears Craftsman in Detroit
Now, my mom was a school teacher. And as an adult looking backward, it is evident to me that she was infinitely more comfortable with the issues important to little kids than I ever will be. I will admit at times when I was growing up we had our issues, but from my perspective, as a 46 year old father of two myself, she was a friggin genius most of the time.
So she took in my tale and then gave me a hug and a kiss and told me “Denny, don’t worry about it if they don’t believe. That’s their choice and you can’t ever change that – but what really matters is what you believe. That’s what we call ‘faith.’ Do you believe Santa exists?"
I recall that my reply must have sounded like something from a cartoon “I do believe ma! I do I do I DO believe!” She gave me another hug and a kiss and told me not to worry about it then – that it was the beginning of Christmas break and we would all feel better once Christmas got here.
Important to this story is that in the front room of our home, there was a modest fireplace surrounded in red-brick and adorned with a wooden mantle. We used the fireplace regularly and it was perpetually filled with ash and soot as a result. To this day, I cannot look at a real fireplace with red bricks and not recall the tale I am about to share with you now.
Christmas morning 1972 arrived and I can remember tearing down the stairs with my brothers to take in the Christmas Day haul. The tree, in my memory, was magnificent and surrounded by a veritable sea of festive packages. In my home the packages from family were always wrapped expertly and the gifts from Santa were always presented right where Santa left them, unwrapped - ready to be enjoyed. If you were especially good, there might also be extra gifts under the tree from the "fairies and elves" at the North Pole.
My eyes took all this in and, as I sorted packages looking to start my pile, I noticed winding through the mountain of toys; around the Hands-Up Harry and electric table top football game, a series of sooty boot-prints. They began at the fireplace and wound their way around the entire room – first to the stockings and then around the tree and then completed their circuit back into the fireplace.
Seeing them was the first “Stop the Presses!” moment of my life.
“AAAA-HAAAAA!” I shouted to my brothers who, apparently oblivious to the tracks, circled the tree like leaves in a whirlwind. My older brothers, then 10 and 12, said not a word to me about the footprints. They are good brothers - always have been.
But there before me was all the proof I needed for rotten old Kerry Simmerson. I begged and begged and begged for my mother to snap a few photos of the boot prints so I could take them to school with me after the start of the New Year and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Santa came to good little boys.
My mom relented and pulled out the family “Polaroid Swinger” and snapped two pictures of the telltale boot prints from different angles while my father made quite a show of saying he was going to catch that elfish devil next year for making such a mess out of our living room.
I counted those days remaining until I could go to school as among my most satisfying ever. Kerry would have to eat an entire basket of crow once he saw the pictures, I thought. I am sure I bored my family to tears with the many tales played out in my mind of what I would say and where exactly I would make my presentation of exhibits A and B once school got back in session.
The night before we returned to school, I put the two pictures on the rack by my coat, right where I wouldn’t forget them. Kerry had always been my bully and at long last I was going to have some justice. Santa did exist and I had all the proof I needed right in my pocket. Tomorrow, I thought, would be a day of reckoning for the bully, Kerry Simmerson. I went to bed that night dreaming victory dreams of the coming confrontation.
What I did not count on in the many times I played this scene out, was that in the rush to get three boys out the door for school before she herself departed work, my mom would have forgotten to include my “Zapruder pics” in with my books and sack lunch. So I was surprised when I got to school and realized the pictures were still at home.
"No problem,” I thought as I sorted through my things, “Tomorrow, then.”
At home that afternoon, I searched and searched and searched for the pictures but couldn’t find them anywhere. I am sure I said horrible things to our babysitter because I remember she helped earnestly in the search but couldn’t find them either. I remember waiting, and crying, in the kitchen for my mom to come home from school.
“The pictures are gone!” I cried. “Now I’ll never get to show him my proof!”
I was devastated.
My mother gave me a hug and said that “we have to have a talk about those pictures…”
My heart exploded into my chest. This was it, this was where she dropped the big one about Santa – she was going to tell me that there was no Santa and I have been acting like an idiot for the better part of two weeks.
She hugged me and we walked together into the front room of that sturdy old Craftsman. There we sat down and she looked right into my face and said:
“Denny, what you believe is what you believe. It’s why we call it “having faith.” If other kids don’t believe then that is up to them; all that really matters to you is that you believe, ok?”
I am sure I looked to her like a dog looks to us when he hears a high pitched sound. I felt like I was left hanging – so was there or wasn’t there a Santa? Seeing this on my face, and being as good with kids as she was, she knew I needed more than that. It was then that she told me the absolute truth about Christmas on Cooley in Old Redford in 1972.
“Denny,” she said looking me right in the face, “Santa sent elves, two of them, and a magic talking squirrel who's been keeping an eye on you, he's called the Telling Squirrel, to take back those pictures. You see, faith is very important to Santa, and he asked me to tell you that if you truly believe, you won’t ever need a simple picture to convince you that love, magic, and Santa exist. He said that people would only say you faked that picture anyhow. And he also said to say he loves you, and that you are a very good little boy."
The essential truths I learned that day, shared with me in the Christmas of my third grade year, I bear with me still. They are part of the ready tools that aid me in my journey through life as a child of wonderful parents and a parent to wonderful children. Santa, and love, and magic most certainly exist, if only you have a little faith.
So thanks for stopping by my blog today and sharing this story. I hope wherever you find yourself today, you are in hugging distance of those who love you, who lift you up, and who fulfill the very best parts of the person you are destined to be.
Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com
