Being Santa Claus

So many houses to visit, so many miles to fly. This holiday season, we did some fast traveling, the Mrs and I, and if we skipped your house, you'll just have to be better next year.

Having spent the previous holidays in the workshop, we decided it was time to bring joy to those bright and eager faces so accustomed to our presence nearly every year prior. So we hitched up the sleigh and drove through nine states, and flew over another eight, arriving just before Christmas and returning home once the twelve days had counted their course.

At one of our many stops, it has been the tradition for many years that someone, usually an older relative or helpful neighbor, has dressed as Santa and had the youngest generation on his knee, giving each child a few pointers for the next year (provided beforehand by the parents) before giving each a gift from his satchel. I had been the second youngest of the youngest generation--and always on the knee--until three years ago, when my cousin's wife gave birth to two wonderful twin girls. They have since been followed by a third sister, and this year by a cousin, the first boy of the fourth generation. Christmas Eve, which had been a time for making the same old, endearing jokes about the same old, endearing meal, and for the older of the cousins to embarrass all the rest while holding court as Santa, was given new life in the eyes of those twin girls, and Santa Claus had to come up with a new act.

Last year, I was told, one of my older cousins put on the costume and the girls loved it, although after he left, they whispered to their mother in concerned tones, "Was that Uncle Tim?" Thankfully, childhood being such a distracting and busy time of life, they seemed to have forgotten their suspicions. They had visited Santa at a mall early in December, and very seriously given him their lists. But Uncle Tim was out of the running as Santa, and the other go-to for the part--who had killed as Santa when it was a comedic event--was their father.

The idea had already been floated that I ought to take the job. The twins hadn't seen me in two years, it was reasoned--no way they would they have time to get a good enough look at me out of costume to recognize me in it. And so, after some vacillation, I agreed.

Christmas Eve morning, my aunt brought out parts of the costume for a dress rehearsal. There was a hairpiece attached to a hat that had been used since I was a child, and a new wig and beard, thicker and whiter, that might replace it. I tried both, and the committee decided that the old was out. But the new option had rather thin coverage of the upper lip, though it was thicker in the beard and on the head. I'd like to think that, thanks to my early (and only!) years in the theater, I improvised a device to distract from this flaw and strengthen the illusion of real hair: I habitually stroked the mustache down around the sides of my mouth, as though it were a naturally grown annoyance. I also practiced loud, authoritative voices, my normal voice not fitting either department. For some reason, Santa Claus began to sound a lot like Jimmy Stewart.

I was allowed to forget about my performance for several hours. I joined the stream of family trickling into my grandfather's house. Cookies were served. Drinks were served before and after the opwatke, a wishing ritual between every individual. Dinner was set out and duly put away. But my impending stage time grew gradually larger in my mind. The father of the twins gave me a briefing on their behavior, and I repeated everything back to him. The girls had been very good; the older twin ought to share with the younger one; the younger ought to eat her vegetables. The youngest, I was told, had been terrified of the mall Santa and had refused to come near him, and I should expect the same. If she did give me a chance, I was to tell her not to hit her older sisters.

The time was nigh. I was by now nervous, repeating to myself my queues--"good, sharing, vegetables, hitting"--while my nerves gave a shock to my mind, which was quite frankly blitzed by the heavy dinner (and heavy cookie-sampling). Then my aunts led the way. The girls had been quarantined in the living room, so I was swept out to the garage. The suit lay in the boot of my grandfather's car. First the strap-on belly. Then another pillow. Then the pants, over my pants. Then black spats, over the bottoms of the pants. Then the coat, over my double-layered gut. Then a belt to secure it all. And last the hair, like a helmet, complete with chin-strap, topped with the hat. At this point, I had to trust that the rest of the costume was operating correctly. I could feel it only indirectly, and I could see only through a jolly tunnel-vision. The most I could do was stroke my mustache and guffaw. I had left behind Jimmy Stewart. Now I only had a sort of dumb, loud voice. Everything formerly familiar slipped away behind the generous white curls. "Good...vegetables...the mall...." Was my belt still on? Would they recognize my shoes? What came first?

My aunts were professional helpers. They gave me the bag of presents, preloaded, and went back into the house to warm up the crowd. I walked out of the garage to the front door, the bag in one hand, bells in the other, belly and beard leading the way--

I had become Santa Claus so quickly that I barely had time to catch up. Just five minutes before, I was a guy at a party. Just years before, I had been the kid at the party, carolling and waiting for Santa. But now here I was, ringing the doorbell, trying to ho-ho-ho loud enough for the neighborhood to hear, and shaking my sleigh bells in the cold December night.

The performance is, now, something of a blur, and I suppose it must have been so then as well, since I could see so little through my costume. But I remember that the twins were completely charmed by Santa. They wanted hugs, and then more hugs. Santa told the older that she should share, and immediately, when they received a joint gift, she told her sister, "Let's share." Santa told the younger about vegetables, and the crowd prompted Santa to say what his vegetable is: Broccoli, of course, since it looks like a Christmas tree. And he told each that their teacher, Mrs H, had given positive reports. "You know Mrs H?" they asked. "She's my closest confidant," said Santa, which gave the crowd pause, but only briefly, until someone prompted Santa to define that word for the girls. (There is, perhaps, no greater gift than a new word.)

Yet I forgot to say half of what I was supposed to say. My aunt called out the names on the gifts as she emptied the bag. Another aunt directed traffic. And whoever had filled the bag threw me curveballs. The mother of the twins had a turn on the knee, and I have no recollection of what I said to her. Even Mrs Claus had a turn, and she assures me it went well. I stumbled partly from nerves, and partly from overheating. I had been dressed in the cold garage, but after ten minutes in the house, under all those layers of belly and hair and suit, I was working up quite a sweat. And even though I wish I were the kind of actor who could pull off a good Jimmy Stewart impression, it's probably best that Santa had a dumb, loud, midwestern voice. When the twins see Vertigo when they're older, they won't think of their magical childhood Christmases.

For what stole the show was the look on each little twin's face--the same look, one of total awe--when they looked at Santa. I don't know if I'm on the roster for next year, but it is a new kind of feeling to know what role I played in the lives of my young cousins.