When I was told of their problem, I knew what was coming my way. I held eye contact with the two women standing before me, one of which was my wife. I resolved in my mind to respond with a firm, “No”.
“Terry told us he couldn’t do it this year.” Here it comes. “So, we’d like you to be Santa,” Melissa, my wife’s best friend, cheerfully said, as if announcing I was selected to be the next Dr Who. “We know you’ll be great and it’s only for a couple of hours. Please?”
I turned to my wife, Holly – a co-conspirator? – who smiled and raised her eyebrows slightly. “We have the Santa suit, and I’ll help you get ready. I told everyone you’d be willing to help,” she confessed, confirming my earlier suspicions.
It seemed a good time to bring my managerial and people skills to the forefront by sincerely offering my deepest appreciation in trusting me with this festive holiday task. But alas, I would respectfully and sadly have to decline. Brilliant! I smiled at the ladies and said, assuredly, “Sure, I’d be happy to do it.”
What do you want to learn today?
The annual Santa’s grotto event was held in a community auditorium and organised by the Metropolitan Vancouver homeschoolers, a volunteer support group of parents who homeschooled their primary and secondary children.
Unlike many countries, homeschooling has never been illegal across Canada’s ten provinces and three territories. At the time, we homeschooled families in British Columbia weren’t legally required to register with a local school board, obtain permission from the province’s Ministry of Education, or have our children sit for exams.
It is up to the parents to decide how to homeschool. The two common methodologies are structured and unstructured (child led). We, and the vast majority of our homeschooling group, followed the latter that asked each student, “What do you want to learn today?”
Most of the homeschooling families attending the annual ‘meet Santa’ event were border-line deprived, or one or two pay cheques from poverty. Besides a gift from Santa for each child – with every gift wrapped and marked with a coded gender and age-appropriate mark on the tag – the parents received a vegetarian or omnivore hamper.
The event, the gifts and hampers, wrapping and entertainment, the day’s free cookies and cakes were from volunteers and donations solicited over the course of the year. Since the Metro Vancouver homeschoolers were not a registered charity, we weren’t eligible for funding from provincial government coffers. Truth be told, we didn’t want to be a charity, too many rules, oversights and reporting.
From Snow White to Santa Claus
On the day of my inaugural role as Santa Claus – also known as Father Christmas, Weihnachtsmann, Sinterkaas, Père Noël, Babbo Natale, Daidí na Nollag or Bodach na Nollaige – I was in the wings of the auditorium’s stage, sweating buckets in my wool Santa suit, polyester beard and moustache, fur lined boots and hat, waiting for Martin the Magician to finish his thing.
The last time I wore a themed costume was at the Kinsey family annual Halloween party, dressed as Snow White. My wife made my skirt and blouse. Although I thought I was rather pleasing to the eye, my mortified 11-year-old son asked Holly if I would submit to a paternity test.
Martin the Magician finally wrapped up his routine, and I heard the master of ceremonies announce that Santa had arrived. With a big sack of empty boxes slung over my shoulder I stepped out on to the stage, yelling the obligatory “Ho-Ho-Ho” bit, waving to my cheering, adoring fans. Then started walking toward the big red chair in the centre of the stage, Santa’s throne.
I was stopped in my tracks by the smiling Master of Ceremonies, “Wait Santa! Let’s have a sing-a-long.”
When I lived in Dallas years ago, I would see the occasional street Santa, collecting donations for some charitable foundation, with a 9mm semi-automatic tucked into a shoulder holster under their coat. How I envied them at that moment. After more than a few basic tunes, I finally shuffled my sweaty body into the chair.
At my insistence no kid would sit on my knee. I wasn’t comfortable with that tradition. So, the little darlings could either stand next to me or sit on the wooden stool to my left. The kids and parents had formed a line at the stairs on the left side of the stage and one at a time would be escorted to Santa by an elf. During the standard interrogation – name, age, self-assessed good or bad year, Christmas wish list – another elf would have retrieved the gender-age-appropriate gift and in my mind, I’d yell, “Next! Keep it moving. Santa’s a busy man. Chop-Chop!”
When Santa met Susan
The event was well organised. Christmas songs were sung during the parade to meet Santa. Elves wandered among the auditorium crowd checking on people or handing out treats. Most of the kids were polite to Santa, asking if the reindeer were hungry or how much were elves paid. After about the 30th visit I became bored with the standard interrogation questions and ad libbed, such as, “What did your Mom or Dad tell you not to say to Santa?”
Then Susan, a shy five- or six-year-old, was escorted to the meet the sweaty man in the big chair.
I asked the standard questions and received mumbling replies. I had to lean in an attempt to hear the child. The mother was about halfway between my chair and the edge of the stage and looking worried.
“Do you like Christmas?” I asked Susan. She nodded yes.
“Did you like what Santa left you under the tree last year?”
Susan was quiet for a long time. I suspected she was very nervous and just wanted a quick exit. I could empathise with that feeling. I was just about ready to reach for her gift when she answered, “We haven’t had a Christmas tree for a long time, and you didn’t come to my house last year.”
Talk about a party stopper. I had Susan’s present in hand, suspended in mid-delivery. My gift fetching elf, Lisa, was standing just behind Susan. She overheard Susan’s revelation. I had Lisa lean down so Susan could deliberately hear us. “Elf, didn’t we find a gift in my sleigh last year and couldn’t find out who should have received it? I found her!”
Lisa was gone in a flash wearing a big smile. I handed Lisa her current gift just as Lisa came back carrying what Susan was led to believed was last year’s lost present. Mom, who caught on to what was happening, came over and hugged her daughter. Lisa was holding back the tears. I had a lump in my throat. Susan’s mother hugged Lisa then kissed my cheek and moved away quickly. I suspect she caught a whiff of Santa’s body odour, courtesy of the wool attire, and backed away.
Merry Christmas to all and a good night
Shortly afterwards, when the last child sat beside Santa and received the last gift, I wished everyone a sincere good night and a Merry Christmas. I walked off the stage waving and ho-ho-ho’ing, then ran for the change room to quickly discarded the Santa suit so my body could breathe again.
I knew there were other children like Susan that met Santa that afternoon and frighteningly too many more across the city, province and the country. Every year when I see a Santa I truthfully think of Susan. Even though it was just a blip on the radar of my life’s journey, it will echo forever.
Not because of Susan, but I told the organisers I wouldn’t be Santa ever again. Not until they changed that damn suit.
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