The Autobiography of Santa Claus
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Editor’s Preface
Foreword
ONE - My Earliest Memories
TWO - Nicholas, Bishop
THREE - Leaving Home
FOUR - Why the Calendar Changed
FIVE - The Beginning of Magic
SIX - Felix and Me
SEVEN - Carving Out Our Fortunes
EIGHT - Layla
NINE - Travels with Attila
TEN - Arthur of Britain
ELEVEN - The Dark Ages
TWELVE - “Let’s Give Gifts of Toys!”
THIRTEEN - The Man Who Changed Christmas
FOURTEEN - Gunpowder, Chimneys, and Stockings
FIFTEEN - At Court with Columbus
SIXTEEN - The Christmas Legend of Saint Nicholas
SEVENTEEN - Hard Times in the New World
EIGHTEEN - Reunion in America
NINETEEN - Diedrich Knickerbocker and “Silent Night”
TWENTY - Reindeer Fly, and So Do I
TWENTY-ONE - A Christmas Carol
TWENTY-TWO - “Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus”
TWENTY-THREE - Theodore Roosevelt and Our North Pole Home
TWENTY-FOUR - Happy Christmas to All
Santa’s Favorite Recipe
Resources
Acknowledgements
ALSO BY JEFF GUINN
The Great Santa Search
How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas
Our Land Before We Die:
The Proud Story of the Seminole Negro
JEREMY P. TARCHER/PENGUIN
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
New York
JEREMY P. TARCHER/PENGUIN
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England · Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-l 10017, India · Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
First published in 1994 by The Summit Group First Jeremy P. Tarcher/Penguin edition 2003 First trade paperback edition 2006 Illustrations by Dorit Rabinovitch
Copyright © 1994 by Jeff Guinn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted matenals in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Most Tarcher/Penguin books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. Special books or book excerpts also can be created to fit specific needs. For details, write Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Special Markets, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Guinn, Jeff.
The autobiography of Santa Claus / as told to Jeff Guinn. p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ).
ISBN: 9781101127773
1. Santa Claus—Fiction. 1. Title.
PS3557.U375A
813’.54—dc21
The recipe in this book is to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision, and is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipe in this book.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
Version_2
Editor’s Preface
I WROTE A BOOK WITH SANTA CLAUS. Not too many people can say that. In fact, I’m the only one I know of.
In just a page or two, Santa will begin telling you about his life, and in his words, not mine. But I thought you might want to know how this book came to be written in the first place. It was sort of an accident, but a wonderful one.
A few Decembers ago, my newspaper printed a story I’d written about little-known facts of Christmas—why it’s celebrated on that specific date, how the name “Saint Nicholas” was changed to “Santa Claus” in America, and some other things. Most of us take our Christmas traditions for granted. We have no idea about when some of our favorite customs started, or who was responsible. I enjoyed writing the story, but I pretty much forgot about it right after it appeared in print.
A few months later, the receptionist in the newspaper’s lobby called my third-floor office and said a man was asking to see me. “He seems very friendly,” she explained. “He says his name is Felix.”
The fellow was about average height and had an engaging smile. He was dressed in an ordinary gray business suit, wore glasses, and was a bit overweight. I guessed he was in his early forties.
“You’re Felix ... ?” I asked, expecting him to tell me his last name.
“Just Felix.” He grinned as he removed a bit of folded newspaper from his coat pocket. It was a copy of my Christmas story.
“We read this with a lot of interest,” Felix said. “It’s all right as far as it goes, but it didn’t really have much important information. So we took it to him, and he said he believed it was time to tell the real story, all of it.”
Not pleased to hear my story criticized, I replied sharply, “Who exactly is ‘we,’ and who exactly is ‘him’?”
Felix’s smile grew even wider. “I can’t tell you yet. What we hope you’ll do is agree to accompany me on a trip. When we get to where we’re going, you’ll get your answers. Please—don’t worry. This isn’t a trick. It’s just that we’re people who value our privacy. You’re going to be asked to help with a writing project, but before we leave, you must agree not to tell anyone about who you met, or where—that’s if you decide you don’t want to get involved.”
Like most writers, I’m curious by nature. Besides, there was something about Felix that made me trust him. I agreed to his conditions. We left the next day to meet this mysterious “him.”
I can’t describe the trip itself. Obviously, we went to see Santa Claus at the North Pole, but part of my agreement with Santa is that I can’t reveal how we got there.
When we arrived, you can imagine my shock at being greeted by an instantly familiar figure. In person, Santa is everything you’d want him to be—wise and jolly, white-bearded and thick-bellied, and, above all, genuinely warm and caring.
Before we had our private talk, Santa introduced me to some of his helpers—his “friends,” he insisted on calling them. My amazement at actually meeting Santa Claus doubled when I found myself shaking hands with some of the most famous people who ever lived and, apparently, hadn’t died. I won’t name them here—Santa will do that in his own time.
Once we were finally in Santa’s study, seated in front of a warm fire and munching chocol
ate chip cookies, he explained why he had invited me to the North Pole.
“The true story of Christmas, and my part in it, is as wonderful and complicated as the world itself,” Santa said. “Very few people really know much about the holiday at all. For some time, Layla has been urging me to tell the real story, so everyone will understand Christmas and Santa Claus better.”
“And Layla is ... ?” I asked.
“My wife, of course,” Santa chuckled. “She’s a much more interesting person than the meek little lady people usually picture when they think of Mrs. Santa Claus. Anyway, I’m not a writer myself, so I thought I might find one who’d record my story as I tell it, then turn it into a book for everyone to read. The story you wrote for your newspaper convinces me that you truly love Christmas, although I’m afraid you don’t know nearly as much about it as you think you do.”
How could I refuse? I called home, told my family I’d be away for a while, and began helping Santa with his book. It seemed more like fun than work. Santa’s stories were full of adventure and wonder. Sometimes, Layla, Felix, or other friends would join us and add their comments.
Throughout the project, Santa insisted that our book be historically accurate. “We want readers to learn some things about world history as well as the history of Christmas,” he constantly repeated. Whenever any date or other fact was in doubt, we consulted history books. So, as amazing as it might seem, just about everyone whose name you read here really did exist. Only a few of the main characters—Phillip, Felix, Layla, Dorothea, and Willie Skokan—can’t be found in history books, because they valued their privacy so much.
Well, that’s enough from me. Santa’s the one whose voice you want and need to hear, so prepare yourself for a unique story that’s equal parts history and magic.
In closing, let me assure you doubters—there really is a Santa Claus. I learned from working on this book that you don’t need to go to the North Pole to find him. It’s only necessary to look into your own heart.
Jeff Guinn
Fort Worth, Texas
Foreword
YOU’RE RIGHT TO BELIEVE IN ME.
Oh, I know it’s hard sometimes. There always are people eager to tell you there isn’t a Santa Claus, that I’m just a story made up long ago and trotted out every Christmas since. I suppose I should be angry with them, but I feel sorry for them instead. Have you ever noticed that it’s always unhappy people who attack the things happy people believe in? That’s been my observation, at least, and I suppose I’ve been around long enough to know.
So let’s start with this. I’ve decided it’s time to tell the real story of Santa Claus, and to have it told by the one who knows it best—me. It’s a long story, going back the better part of two thousand years. I’ll try not to bore you too much with dates and places, but there are important times and people in my life you should know more about—my wife, for one, and Felix, who was my first helper fifteen centuries ago, and others. Without many faithful friends, my role in Christmas wouldn’t have been possible, and that’s one reason I want to tell my tale. I always get the credit. From the beginning, my philosophy has been, “It’s better to give than to receive,” and I want to see the credit properly shared among all those who deserve it.
I remember one time, for instance, when the pilgrims maintained it wasn’t right to celebrate Christmas at all. They decided anyone caught observing the holiday would be punished, and I found myself telling Felix that I should just give up ever doing my holiday rounds in the new land called America. Felix convinced me otherwise, of course; we’ll tell that story in its proper time. But it’s a good example of why someone else deserves some of the glory. Probably I was just feeling discouraged when I made that remark to Felix—even Santa Claus gets discouraged sometimes—and almost certainly I would simply have waited the pilgrims out. Still, it’s also possible that without Felix’s encouraging words, no child in the United States would ever have awakened Christmas morning to find filled stockings and a present from old Santa under the tree.
Another reason I’m writing this book is to clear up some matters that apparently have troubled too many people for too long. On Christmas Eve, for instance, they wonder how Santa can possibly get around to the house of every deserving child in the whole wide world. Why do I have different names in different countries if I’m just one person? Do my helpers and I really live at the North Pole, and do reindeer really know how to fly?
I’ll tell what I can, but I must say this right away: There are some answers I don’t know, either. This is the difference, the very important difference, between illusion and magic. Illusion is when something happens that seems impossible, but eventually can be figured out. Magic is when something happens that can’t be understood. Quite simply, illusion is explained, but magic just is. There’s some illusion in what I do, but there’s a fair share of magic, too. You’ll learn about times I couldn’t quite understand what was happening to me, and how I finally realized there are some things that can’t be understood, just accepted.
But what I hope you’ll learn above all else is that the real magic of Christmas involves love, and that the greatest joy is giving rather than getting. Just as this isn’t a perfect world, Christmas isn’t a perfect holiday, and won’t be until all human beings on this beautiful planet can live together in harmony. No single person can make this happen, but if we each do what we can, then there’s still hope that one Christmas Day we’ll find ourselves enjoying the most wonderful gift possible—complete peace on Earth, and goodwill from everyone to everyone.
Well! That was quite a speech I let myself make! Layla—I suppose she’s better known as Mrs. Claus—would point out I was sounding like quite an old windbag! “Get on with the story!” she’d say if she were reading this. And she’d be right; it’s time to begin. After all, I don’t want to put you to sleep.
Unless, of course, it’s Christmas Eve.
Dizzy from the knock on the head and smelly from pig droppings, I staggered to my feet, grabbed my ladder, and hurried back toward the inn.
Shem was making a fearful uproar inside his house, screaming to his daughters to wake up and help him catch the thief.
ONE
My Earliest Memories
I live at the snowy North Pole now, but my life began sur rounded by sand. I was born in a country that was then called Lycia; it’s since been absorbed into the nation of Turkey, which I suppose is appropriate, considering what many families like to eat for their Christmas dinner. Lycia was located along the southwestern border of the land across the Mediterranean Sea from Egypt and Israel.
The year of my birth is recorded as 280 A.D., or two hundred and eighty years after what is now considered the “official” birth year of a much more important baby, whose name was Jesus. Actually, records weren’t kept as carefully in those days, so no one is really sure in which year Jesus was born. The main thing is, I was born about three centuries later in the Lycian town of Patara. Sometimes I find it odd, and other times amusing, that I know the exact details of when I came into this world, but have no idea how long I’m going to stay. Patara was a prosperous village as villages went in those days, meaning many of the four hundred people living there got enough to eat and had houses to live in. Today my hometown would seem very primitive—no indoor bathrooms, no video games, no cars roaring up and down its streets. But everybody knew everybody else’s name.
My father’s name was Epiphaneos and my mother was called Nonna. They were quite old when I was born, probably in their fifties. People didn’t live as long then as they do now—maybe to sixty if they were lucky. We didn’t have much in the way of medicine, and everybody ate what they wanted without worrying about calories. Anyway, I arrived long after my parents had given up hope of having a baby. I was quite a surprise to them! They celebrated by naming me Nicholas, which means “victorious.” It was a name I liked very much. No one used nicknames in those days, so I was always Nicholas and never Nick or Nicky. I acquired my nicknam
es much later in life.
We were a Christian family. As I grew up and learned more and more about my religion, one thing Jesus said always stayed with me: that we should treat other people the way we would want them to treat us. That made sense to me even as a little boy. Other parts of being a Christian weren’t as much fun. There were days you were supposed to fast, and I always liked to eat. Even goat cheese tasted good to me. One of the sadder things about living now at the North Pole is that I just can’t get goat cheese anymore. Maybe a few of you reading this book will leave me some next Christmas Eve instead of the usual cookies, though I’m certainly glad to have the cookies—especially homemade chocolate chip, if anyone’s taking notes.
I was given a good education, by which I mean I was taught to read and write Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. There were a lot of languages, because we lived in what was called a “melting pot,” or a place through which people of all different countries and races might pass. If by chance someone came to our family inn and spoke only Hebrew, he might go on to the next town and the next inn if we weren’t able to answer back in Hebrew.
Being able to read and write in several languages made me something of a scholar. There wasn’t any formal schooling then. Boys learned as much as their parents wanted them to. Girls, I’m sorry to say, were seldom allowed to go to school at all. People thought they were only suited to stay home, keep house, and someday raise children of their own. I’m glad people finally learned better, although it took much too long. (I hope my wife, Layla, will be pleased I mentioned this so early in my book; it was always an important point to her, as you’ll learn when I get to the part of my story about when I met her. But that’s a hundred years after the time we’re talking about now.)