The Day That Santa Died

Christmas is the mother of all holidays. There is no argument. Everyone has a childhood memory or story that revolves around December 25th. That is not to say that other holidays do not have fond memories. Everyone has the loving New Years Eve story of a drunken relative that made a pass at an inflatable doll or the unforgettable Fourth of July account of the odd ball uncle that lost a tooth while holding a roman candle in his mouth. I know that I do. But Christmas…. well…is just Christmas.

I do not wish to demean the importance of other holidays to family memories. But, I am willing to bet my best ornament that very few people have a heartwarming recollection of a family gathering on Arbor Day or a story that is passed down from generation to generation of a President Day past.

 I had the luck of growing up in the 1960’s on a farm in a small town in southern Wisconsin. Our farmhouse was built in the 1860’s and was nestled in a valley on the shores of a small river. It was Dickensian with cheddar cheese.

 The predominantly Christian community of fewer than 200 people celebrated Christmas piously, reverently and passionately. I attended St. John’s Catholic school. Although the school was small, with two grades in each classroom, the school was twice as large as twice as the public school. The town shared a common faith, a common economy and many common interests. The town exuded a sense of community every day: the Christmas season brought out the best in everyone.

 The hand full of business owners in the tiny town adorned their stores with holiday and holy day decorations.  That meant that the two taverns, the general store, the cheese factory and the Post Office all had a Santa and his sleigh next to a Nativity Scene. No one was ever greeted with “Happy Holidays”. You were always wished a “Merry Christmas.”

 The nuns and priest in the school constantly drove the religious point home. The story of Christmas was always the biblical version. There was never a mention of Santa, Rudolph, elves, reindeer of even Frosty.  But, to the kids, Christmas was all about Santa.

 When I was nine years old I bought into the Santa scam 100%. I wrote letters to Santa. I visited him in the department store. I left out a glass of milk and a plate of cookies for him on Christmas Eve. I left a plate of carrots for his reindeer. That was all before Christmas day of 1963. December 25th, 1963 I was told the truth. That was the day Santa died.

 Many people trace their history with tragic events. To this day people still ask me my location when Kennedy was shot. My Dad could pinpoint his location when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. My Grandfather could always place himself when he got the news that the depression has stolen his farm.

 I know exactly where I was when I found out that Santa Claus did not exist.

Our Christmas Day tradition was to travel to Milwaukee and celebrate the holiday with my mother’s side of the family. We loaded into the car to go to the home of our Aunt Verna and Uncle Jimmy Knutson. This was also the home of my grandmother.

 After a large family meal, our parents drank liquor-laden punch and smoked unfiltered cigarettes. My aunt and uncle were professional smokers. They were paid with coupons that were inserted into each pack of cigarettes that they purchased. The Knutson family did not buy gifts at Christmas. They redeemed coupons.

My Grandmother bought all her gifts. And, she always bought the best presents of Christmas.  She would always buy the male cousins the same gift. It was usually the most desired, advertised and wished-for gift of the year. After dinner we five male cousins would head upstairs to play with our gift.

 I was the youngest of the male cousins so I was always eager to follow their lead. The age difference from oldest to youngest was four years. If my cousins made up rules for a game I believed them.  If they told me how a toy was to be played with I responded. They were experts. Most toys of my childhood were weapons, war replicas or destructive devices.  Playing meant pointing guns, threatening with military facsimiles and mimicking the battle scenes that had been described to us by our veteran fathers. What was the normal play of my childhood would now get me thrown out of school

 As I remember, we were all playing together very well. We were getting louder and more active. Our wild play went unnoticed as the revelry of our parents was also escalating.  It was at a moment of silence (or a “cease fire”) that I decided to ask a question.

 “What presents did Santa bring you guys?”

 Cease-fire. Armistice. War over.

 My older cousins gave each other glances. My cousin Timmy froze in mid hand grenade toss. The glances slowly built to evil grins and then a chuckle.

 “You don’t still believe in Santa? Do you?”, said my cousin Timmy. “Are you still a little kid?”

 “We found out the truth when we were seven,” stated cousin Donny. “You must be stupid,”

 I decided to defend myself, and my family. “My Mom and Dad say he is real! My sisters do, too!”

Timmy would not relent. “Your parents buy your presents. There is no Santa Claus.”

I had an answer. “My Dad says that Santa brings the gifts but that he just pays the bills.”

Donny seemed to have a personal stake in my conversion. “Santa is not real. Next year look in all your closets and under beds. You’ll find out where they hide everything. Ask your parents. ”

I decided to swing again. “ I did ask. Dad told me that if I don’t believe in Santa that he won’t come to our house.”

Timmy, and his two-year childhood seniority, was pressing. “They tell you that stuff to stop you from being bad. It’s a trick.”

My cousin Forrest was a just a few months older than me. I could tell that he also was struggling with his faith but had been told the facts. The peer pressure of older cousins and his brother, Jamie, had convinced him, too.

“C’mon, Scotty! Every house in the world in one night! That would be a miracle. And the nuns tell us only Jesus can do miracles.”

The God card had been played.

Jamie, the oldest of us all, had had enough. “Nice job jerks. Way to ruin Christmas for another kid. Don’t you remember how you felt when you found out that Santa wasn’t real?’

R.I.P. Santa Claus. Jamie was the oldest and smartest.

It was a long ride home. The ritual singing of Christmas songs in the car by the family went minus my voice. For me, it was a long, quiet ride. For me it was a long, quiet year.

The following season, a few weeks before Christmas, I scourged our home, as my cousin Donny had advised. In a closet, behind some old clothes, were some of the items on my letter to Santa. Final confirmation had been made.

On Christmas Eve, at the behest of my parents, I put out cookies and a plate of carrot sticks. When I woke up the cookies and milk were gone: the carrots had been chewed or gnawed convincingly. I opened all of my presents that had been wrapped in various holiday papers and labeled “ From Santa. To Scott.”

The present that I had wanted the most that season was an electric train. It was not in the closet that I had spied into. It was, however, under the Christmas tree. This gave Santa a short reprieve, but my 10-year old life experience had proven to be the winner. I was convinced that Santa was a scam.

After opening gifts we all went into the kitchen for a big, farm breakfast. Breakfast on Christmas Day was always the best breakfast of the year. I remember them as some of the happiest moments of my life. Everyone was happy. Everyone was thankful. Everyone was allowed to bring a gift to the table.

I brought the engine to my new train to the table. No one scolded me as I ran it across the table as we ate. I clearly remember my father asking me the same question that he asked me every Christmas morning.

“Well. Scotty. Did Santa remember to bring everything on your list this year?”

At that moment I did something that I never did before on Christmas morning. My usual response was to remain hypnotized by my toy and give a  “yep” or a grunt of affirmation. But this morning I paused and looked into the faces of my Dad, my Mom and my three sisters. Even though I was just ten years old I knew that my answer was important to them. It was important to their Christmas.

At that moment the words from a year earlier, of my older cousin Jamie, found their way into my toy-clouded brain.

“ Don’t you remember how you felt when you found out that Santa wasn’t real?’

I did remember how I felt. And I decided not to make the people, that had made every Christmas so wonderful for me, feel the same way. I did not want to ruin Christmas for them.

“Santa remembered everything!” Then I paused for a moment and said something that I had never said on Christmas morning, “Thanks Mom and Dad!”

That was my way of telling my parents that I knew the truth. And ,even though Santa was no longer the person that brought my gifts, Santa was back…and very alive…in my heart.

 And thanks to my children and grandchildren he lives there, strongly, to this day.