Visiting Santa in a Nick of Time
Seeing children visiting Santa at the mall the other day made me wonder what they are asking for – Xbox One, Razor Crazy Cart, and Big Hugs Elmo top the Toys“R”Us 2013 hot toys list – and also got me to reminiscing.
The winter I was five there was only one thing I wanted for Christmas. No, not a bike or baseball mitt. I already had a twice-hand-me-down two-wheeler with coaster brakes that could skid on a dime and a thirdhand mitt better than brand new because it had been broken-in to supple perfection by my two older brothers.
What I wanted was a rope. Moreover, for some reason it had to reach from the far wall of the dining room across the house to the kitchen’s furthest wall.
Mom had always taken us to Lazarus Department Store to see Santa; always on the very first day he arrived; and always she came home on the edge of a nervous breakdown after trying to keep three rambunctious young boys in line – and in line – for an hour.
But this year Pop promised Mom he would take us. As each day passed and Christmas drew nearer and nearer, he kept putting the visit off. When Jim, Doug and I started to whine, Pop took us aside and shared a big secret we were not to tell Mom.
“If you go too soon,” he explained, “Santa sometimes forgets what you asked for. Think of all the kids he talks to. So the closer you wait until Christmas, the better the chances are Santa will remember who you are, where you live, and what you asked for. If we go see Santa on Christmas Eve afternoon, there is no way he will forget you.”
Pop’s real secret, of course, was this: There is no line whatsoever to see Santa on Christmas Eve afternoon because only a knuckleheaded parent would torture kids by making them wait so very long.
Christmas Eve finally arrived, and sitting on Santa’s lap I said: “I want a rope that reaches all the way from the kitchen wall to the dining room wall.”
“Ho-ho-ho. What else do you want, young man?”
“That’s all, Santa. A long cowboy rope.”
Like my parents, and Saint Nick, you surely are wondering, “Why a rope?”
Gee whiz, to make a lasso for roping our dog Mac and swing from a tree like Tarzan and play Batman by making foot traps to catch Penguin and Joker (my big brothers) and a thousand other things.
When we returned home from our Lazarus excursion a half-hour later – the 10-minute drive each way included – Mom shot Pop a stare that would freeze Prestone and scolded: “I told you that you waited too long! Santa was gone and now don’t you feel terrible? I’m so sorry kids … ”
Pop: “They saw Santa.”
Jim, Doug and me (in happy unison): “We didn’t even have to wait in line!”
I’m guessing Mommy didn’t kiss Santa Clause underneath the mistletoe that night.
Early Christmas morning, we tore down the stairs and tore open our presents and inside one was a fat, silky-soft, white nylon rope, the tips of both ends melted coal black to prevent unraveling.
Before celebrating the glorious gift, I made Pop hold one end against the dining room wall while I marched across the house with the other end.
Pop admitted many years later he was literally at the end of his rope in panic because he had not measured the actual distance between the two walls; he just went out and bought a generous length of the nicest rope he could find.
He also confesses that as I neared the far kitchen wall, and the rope began to grow taut, he pulled his end away from the dining room wall about two feet – which, in my excitement, thankfully went unnoticed by me.
Indeed, I not only thought Santa came through meeting my exact specifications but I was certain this was because we waited until Christmas Eve afternoon to see him so my gift request was fresh in his mind.
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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. His new memoir WOODEN & ME is available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com and Amazon.com.