A Christmas Story
It was the Christmas season in 1969. I don’t remember now how I found out about it, but the Sanger-Harris Department Store in downtown Dallas hired me to be the store Santa Claus. I had just turned 24.
I suited up in a red costume with a beard and a pillow under my belt and mounted the throne on my first day. I was delighted and thrilled to have the opportunity and was sure I loved kids. So this was a dream job that would be both interesting and fun. I threw myself into it with enthusiasm and tried to be in character. I would be engaging and interested in children.
When the first child got in line and strolled up to the royal seat, I shifted into gear and hoisted her upon my lap. The conversation went something like this.
“Ho, ho, ho. What is your name, Sweetheart?” I rolled this out in a jolly, kindly, condescending voice as when a parent talks down to a child. I was all in as an endearing grand-fatherly type of Claus whose whole life was little ones.
“Sarah," she cooed. How precious. I will never tire of such angelic notes.
“Ho, ho, ho. That’s a pretty little name. Santa loves that name and your melodic, cherubic voice. What a beautiful coat you are wearing, Sarah, and such pretty curls! (I was almost breathless with feeling.) Do you have any brothers and sisters? (Since not many were in line and she was cute, I was taking my time getting into her life story with all kinds of questions that grandparents ask. Her parents beamed.)
“I have been keeping a check list all year long, Sarah, so I know you have been a good little girl. So tell old Santa what gifts you want him to put under your tree on Christmas morning when he opens his bag and brings out the goose that lays the golden eggs. Ho-ho-ho.”
In her sweet little voice, she indexed her mile long list, describing in detail all the crap she wanted. Showing eagerness, after each item she offered, I would ask her specific information about each toy and throw in a “Ho, ho, ho” to let her know I was amused by her charm and what fun I was having by listening to all the jib jab and excitement she radiated.
While listening to her, I mused, "What could be better than this?" I was being privileged to listen to hundreds, maybe thousands, of darling toddlers elucidate all about their fanciful wishes 8 hours a day for 4 solid weeks while being paid to do it as 2 new Christmas albums by Herb Alpert and Glenn Campbell played non-stop in the background and created lasting memories. My heart swelled with love for children and the full expression of the Christmas spirit. This was going to be the best Christmas ever.
This little girl entertained me for about 10 minutes as I merrily “Ho, ho, ho-ed” away. I paid rapt attention to her and memorized every word she said so that I could pass on to her mother and father the cornucopia of premiums she requested.
I could have listened to her forever. When she finally finished, I lifted her up gently, set her down like she was made of expensive China, patted her on the head, and away she went enthralled that Santa had promised her that he would be descending through the clouds in his 600 ton Polar Express locomotive and parking on her roof on Christmas Eve, laden down with all the junk she wanted.
The next adoring little fellow was on his way up to the big chair where I awaited his arrival with outstretched arms, ho-ho-hoing and playing the role fully, as if Adam in his sinless state from the Garden of Eden was coming into my presence. This was wonderful. I was filled with delight. How I loved the innocence and openness of children.
The same kind of engagement I had with the first little girl continued on with wee Joey. Querying him further as he elaborated on all the claptrap he envied, I ho-ho-ho-ed at everything he said. He was only the second kid, but I became aware of a tinge of different feelings I was suddenly having. First, I was beginning to tire of all this constant ho-ho-hoing. And since he was saying almost the same crap that Sarah had intoned, I was getting weary of hearing the same old same old, especially since he was not so articulate as Sarah was. That meant I had to ask more questions for clarity. Because he mumbled, I had to ask him to repeat himself. From now on I was not going to be so specific with things. Too many questions. It was all fake anyway. So what difference did it make? Because he was getting more and more into it and I was more and more coming out of it, I thought he would never stop. So I cut him off, hustled him off to his smiling parents, and flippantly motioned for the next toddler to hurry up and make his way to the horn of plenty so we could get this over with . . . as Glenn Campbell softly crooned, “Christmas is for children . . .”
At about the half hour mark and 4 kids into this, things had taken a dramatic turn. I was now bored to death with all this and not sure I really wanted to have any kids of my own. The patronizing voice I started with had morphed into total disinterest. I didn’t care what their names were. That ho-ho-hoing schtick was monotonous. So was the pointless interrogation about the toys they wanted but would never get. In fact, this whole thing was tiresome and the Mount Everest of ennui.
So from about the first half hour after the Golden Throne of Bequeathment opened on the day after Thanksgiving till it closed on Christmas Eve, visits to Santa in the Sanger-Harris Department Store at Christmas season in Dallas went something like this.
As I finished with one kid, the following one was not greeted with a smile or open arms or a seat on Santa’s lap. Just a nod of the head and a cold, bored “Next.”
As he or she stood there between my legs, without even looking at them and my mind a million miles away meditating on something more intriguing than this, I mumbled a flat, “What do you want?”
With that, they started in. But I heard nothing. As they droned away, I occasionally, mindlessly responded.
But now a fully engaged response with that supercilious voice had been replaced by what sounded like the new Amazon Echo Silver for Seniors with that wonderful “Uh-Huh” feature for long, rambling conversations..
“Well, I would like a Slinky, a Chatty Cathy, a teddy bear, a box of 64 crayons, some pencils, a rocking horse . . .
“Uh-huh.”
“a snare drum, a Tonka dump truck, a puzzle, a baseball glove, a rubber bone for my dog, a Lionel train . . .
“Uh-huh.”
“a machine gun, a Mr Potato Head, an erector set, the Game of Life, a cowboy hat, a bicycle, a chess set, a hula hoop. . .
“Uh-huh.”
If they mercifully paused . . . I would give them one final shot to push the stick forward and head for the airport before I pushed them out the side door with an aloof, “Anything else?”
“a baseball bat, a Superman cape, a chemistry set, tinker toys, marbles, some Lincoln logs . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
While staring into space and in a voice-activated listening mode, just as soon as they stopped talking with those grating, cloying voices that sounded like finger nails on a chalk board, I gave them the old Baptist left foot of fellowship with a curt, “Next," and a shove with my boot into their backside toward the door.
However, at the end of all this Linda became a store detective at Sanger-Harris and a Deputy Sheriff for Dallas County.
I suited up in a red costume with a beard and a pillow under my belt and mounted the throne on my first day. I was delighted and thrilled to have the opportunity and was sure I loved kids. So this was a dream job that would be both interesting and fun. I threw myself into it with enthusiasm and tried to be in character. I would be engaging and interested in children.
When the first child got in line and strolled up to the royal seat, I shifted into gear and hoisted her upon my lap. The conversation went something like this.
“Ho, ho, ho. What is your name, Sweetheart?” I rolled this out in a jolly, kindly, condescending voice as when a parent talks down to a child. I was all in as an endearing grand-fatherly type of Claus whose whole life was little ones.
“Sarah," she cooed. How precious. I will never tire of such angelic notes.
“Ho, ho, ho. That’s a pretty little name. Santa loves that name and your melodic, cherubic voice. What a beautiful coat you are wearing, Sarah, and such pretty curls! (I was almost breathless with feeling.) Do you have any brothers and sisters? (Since not many were in line and she was cute, I was taking my time getting into her life story with all kinds of questions that grandparents ask. Her parents beamed.)
“I have been keeping a check list all year long, Sarah, so I know you have been a good little girl. So tell old Santa what gifts you want him to put under your tree on Christmas morning when he opens his bag and brings out the goose that lays the golden eggs. Ho-ho-ho.”
In her sweet little voice, she indexed her mile long list, describing in detail all the crap she wanted. Showing eagerness, after each item she offered, I would ask her specific information about each toy and throw in a “Ho, ho, ho” to let her know I was amused by her charm and what fun I was having by listening to all the jib jab and excitement she radiated.
While listening to her, I mused, "What could be better than this?" I was being privileged to listen to hundreds, maybe thousands, of darling toddlers elucidate all about their fanciful wishes 8 hours a day for 4 solid weeks while being paid to do it as 2 new Christmas albums by Herb Alpert and Glenn Campbell played non-stop in the background and created lasting memories. My heart swelled with love for children and the full expression of the Christmas spirit. This was going to be the best Christmas ever.
This little girl entertained me for about 10 minutes as I merrily “Ho, ho, ho-ed” away. I paid rapt attention to her and memorized every word she said so that I could pass on to her mother and father the cornucopia of premiums she requested.
I could have listened to her forever. When she finally finished, I lifted her up gently, set her down like she was made of expensive China, patted her on the head, and away she went enthralled that Santa had promised her that he would be descending through the clouds in his 600 ton Polar Express locomotive and parking on her roof on Christmas Eve, laden down with all the junk she wanted.
The next adoring little fellow was on his way up to the big chair where I awaited his arrival with outstretched arms, ho-ho-hoing and playing the role fully, as if Adam in his sinless state from the Garden of Eden was coming into my presence. This was wonderful. I was filled with delight. How I loved the innocence and openness of children.
The same kind of engagement I had with the first little girl continued on with wee Joey. Querying him further as he elaborated on all the claptrap he envied, I ho-ho-ho-ed at everything he said. He was only the second kid, but I became aware of a tinge of different feelings I was suddenly having. First, I was beginning to tire of all this constant ho-ho-hoing. And since he was saying almost the same crap that Sarah had intoned, I was getting weary of hearing the same old same old, especially since he was not so articulate as Sarah was. That meant I had to ask more questions for clarity. Because he mumbled, I had to ask him to repeat himself. From now on I was not going to be so specific with things. Too many questions. It was all fake anyway. So what difference did it make? Because he was getting more and more into it and I was more and more coming out of it, I thought he would never stop. So I cut him off, hustled him off to his smiling parents, and flippantly motioned for the next toddler to hurry up and make his way to the horn of plenty so we could get this over with . . . as Glenn Campbell softly crooned, “Christmas is for children . . .”
At about the half hour mark and 4 kids into this, things had taken a dramatic turn. I was now bored to death with all this and not sure I really wanted to have any kids of my own. The patronizing voice I started with had morphed into total disinterest. I didn’t care what their names were. That ho-ho-hoing schtick was monotonous. So was the pointless interrogation about the toys they wanted but would never get. In fact, this whole thing was tiresome and the Mount Everest of ennui.
So from about the first half hour after the Golden Throne of Bequeathment opened on the day after Thanksgiving till it closed on Christmas Eve, visits to Santa in the Sanger-Harris Department Store at Christmas season in Dallas went something like this.
As I finished with one kid, the following one was not greeted with a smile or open arms or a seat on Santa’s lap. Just a nod of the head and a cold, bored “Next.”
As he or she stood there between my legs, without even looking at them and my mind a million miles away meditating on something more intriguing than this, I mumbled a flat, “What do you want?”
With that, they started in. But I heard nothing. As they droned away, I occasionally, mindlessly responded.
But now a fully engaged response with that supercilious voice had been replaced by what sounded like the new Amazon Echo Silver for Seniors with that wonderful “Uh-Huh” feature for long, rambling conversations..
“Well, I would like a Slinky, a Chatty Cathy, a teddy bear, a box of 64 crayons, some pencils, a rocking horse . . .
“Uh-huh.”
“a snare drum, a Tonka dump truck, a puzzle, a baseball glove, a rubber bone for my dog, a Lionel train . . .
“Uh-huh.”
“a machine gun, a Mr Potato Head, an erector set, the Game of Life, a cowboy hat, a bicycle, a chess set, a hula hoop. . .
“Uh-huh.”
If they mercifully paused . . . I would give them one final shot to push the stick forward and head for the airport before I pushed them out the side door with an aloof, “Anything else?”
“a baseball bat, a Superman cape, a chemistry set, tinker toys, marbles, some Lincoln logs . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
While staring into space and in a voice-activated listening mode, just as soon as they stopped talking with those grating, cloying voices that sounded like finger nails on a chalk board, I gave them the old Baptist left foot of fellowship with a curt, “Next," and a shove with my boot into their backside toward the door.
However, at the end of all this Linda became a store detective at Sanger-Harris and a Deputy Sheriff for Dallas County.