Santa Claus ran a large display ad in our local newspaper last week. “Hey Kids! Send a letter to Santa and his elves at the North Pole!”
I didn’t recall seeing ads like this, recently, running in local newspapers — and the timing may have been slightly unfortunate. The ad appeared just a couple of days before the start of the Hanukkah celebrations.
Santa probably could have waited a few days, out of respect.
At any rate, the ad invites children to mail their Santa letters care of the local newspaper office. (I understand the newspaper is also accepting emailed letters?) And if you’re lucky, your letter might get published in the paper.
But the offer obviously extends only to children.
So I got to wondering… how many adults would really like to write to Santa, but hesitate to do so… because they’re afraid of being seen as immature?
Like, for instance, me.
We don’t stop wanting free stuff in our stockings, just because we’re old enough to pay income tax and worry about mortgage payments. We still want to be loved and appreciated,and pampered.
Why is it only “kids” who get to write letters to Santa? Who, exactly, drew that line in the snow… forbidding us adults from communicating with the magical man in the red suit?
These thoughts kept me awake last night. And as I tossed and turned and kicked the blankets, a letter began to formulate itself.
Dear Santa,
You may not remember me, because it’s been a long time since we chatted at Macy’s Department Store. I was probably four years old, and it took all the courage I could muster to let go of my mommy’s hand and allow the pretty elf lady to set me down in your velvet-clad lap. Your white gloves felt surprisingly soft as you gently touched my waist and, in your grandfatherly voice, asked me my name.
Mommy stood at a distance, smiling, while the other elf got ready to take a flash photo.
Then you popped a couple of unexpected questions.
“Well, Louis. Have you been a good boy this year? Have you been helping your mother around the house?”
That’s when things started to feel uncomfortable. I had agreed to our little chat with the understanding that I was simply going to tell you what I wanted for Christmas, and you would take note of my desires, and arrange for them to be met on December 25.
No one ever warned me I was going to interrogated about my behavior.
Had I been helping my mother around the house? What kind of question was that? I was four years old, for heaven’s sake. You were expecting me to run the vacuum cleaner, perhaps? Or wash the dishes? I couldn’t even reach the sink.
Maybe you hadn’t heard of child labor laws.
But there I was, sitting captive in your lap, with a guy in a green outfit getting ready to snap our picture, my mommy smiling, a line of kids waiting for their turn in your lap. What could I do, but lie. Yes, I have been a good boy this year. There, I said it. Yes, I had been helping my mother around the house.
Of course, you already knew the truth. Right? You already had your lists. The naughty list and the nice list. And where would you put a little boy who was willing to tell lies to Santa’s face? Well, I guess I went right onto the naughty list.
But for some reason, you still brought me that remote controlled car that I’d seen advertised on TV.
Why am I bringing this up, now? You probably think, hey, water under the bridge. Little boys tell lies all the time. No big deal. Let’s move on.
But maybe it’s a bigger deal than you think. What kind of world do we end up with, when one of the biggest heroes of childhood allows a boy to tell a bold-faced lie about helping his mother, and then rewards him with a remote control car?
Just take a look at Washington DC, and tell me if you feel good about where we seem to be headed.
Anyways, I had to get this off my chest. And no, I haven’t been good all year, this year. Mostly good, but not completely good.
Just to be honest, for a change.
I call my mom once in a while, but not often enough. I don’t always walk the dog like I should. I didn’t report all my income.
But I have a real car, now. It would be great to get a set of new snow tires for Christmas.
The size is 205/70R15. In case you were wondering.
Underrated writer Louis Cannon grew up in the vast American West, although his ex-wife, given the slightest opportunity, will deny that he ever grew up at all.