I finished my remaining pajama visits that night. And as I drove back home, I knew deep down that I could never give up being Santa Claus, no matter what the world might throw at me. The celebration of Christmas itself had become too much a part of my being to ever walk away.
SO THESE DAYS, WHENEVER I HEAR SOMEONE grumble or complain about the commercialization of Christmas, I encourage them to focus on the real reason for the season. Whether you’re Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, or anything else, the essential element is faith. Faith in families, faith that we can create peace on earth, faith in love. To me, whatever we believe in and cherish is what we want to make Christmas about. The true meaning of the holiday can never get lost if we keep that spirit of Christmas alive in our hearts.
ELEVEN
The Spinach Cookie Story
BY 2008, I’D DECIDED TO GIVE MY ROLE AS A mall Santa a rest. It had been a great run, despite the bumps in the road of the past two seasons, but I sensed it was time to try a new adventure. I wanted to do something that allowed me the more personal interactions I enjoyed during my home visits and in-person appearances. My experience in the church had restored my faith, and now what I needed to nurse my newly revived Christmas spirit was the best medicine of all: the sweet sound of children laughing.
And so I accepted a job as a Santa-in-residence at a very friendly, enterprising photography studio that was set up inside a mall but wasn’t part of the mall operation itself. It was perfect for me—all of the festivity with none of the high-pressured rushing.
I loved the shop’s warm, wonderful atmosphere. The staff there was thrilled when I offered to get down on the floor to play with a stubborn toddler in order to give him a chance to warm up to me and take a happy picture. I did this a few times in different ways with different children, and by my second day, the photographers no longer bothered trying to pose me with the kids. I would simply interact with them in whatever ways seemed most comfortable for them, and the photographer would follow the action and get a series of precious candid pictures.
It helped that I would start playing with the children while they were still in the waiting area, as I hung out there between portrait sessions. I did funny Santa voices and we sang songs together. I’d like to say that it was all for the benefit of the kids, but really, I was having an equally good time! This kind of lighthearted merriment was exactly what this Santa needed. I felt relaxed, happy, and inspired to have fun again, which is how the spinach cookie story came to be.
Children love to be told stories, and, I figured, who better to tell a tale than Santa Claus himself? So while driving home one night, I came up with a story that I could tell to children while they were waiting for their parents to choose picture styles and pay before the photo session began. Since then, I’ve told this story probably hundreds of times, and to this day it remains the most frequently requested of all my Santa Claus tales.
It goes like this…
As the children sit around me, usually cross-legged on the floor in a circle, I ask them, “Do you want to hear the story about the spinach cookie?”
They shout, “YES!”
“Well, you know, kids always ask me what’s my favorite kind of cookie, because they want to know what kind of cookies to leave out for me when I visit them on Christmas Eve. Now, who here likes chocolate chip cookies?” A few children will raise their hands. “How many of you like Oreo cookies?” A few more will raise their hands. “How about gingerbread cookies? Christmas sugar cookies? Do you like the ones with the M&M’s in ’em?” By this point, all the children have probably raised their hands multiple times.
“So you can see just how hard it is for me to make up my mind when children ask what’s my favorite cookie. But I can tell you the story of the worst cookie I ever ate. It was about—oh, I don’t know—maybe fifty years ago. Which seems like a long time to all of you, but it’s just the blink of an eye to me. There was this little girl named Molly—she was about six or seven years old at the time—and she lived in a small town in Ohio. One day, Molly visited me at the mall with her parents, sat on my knee, and told me that she wanted an Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas.
“And I said, ‘What are you going to use the Easy-Bake Oven for?’ I figured she was going to say that she would help bake things for her family. But instead, she said, ‘If you leave me an Easy-Bake Oven, Santa, I’ll use it to make you some Christmas cookies! They’ll be the best cookies you ever had, I promise!’
“Ho, ho, ho!” At this point in the story, I always laugh and look around at all the children. “You all know how much I like cookies! So I saw this as a chance to make a little investment. That year, I left Molly an Easy-Bake Oven. And you know what happened?
“I came back to visit the next year, and as I’m putting presents underneath Molly’s tree, I look over to notice, right next to the fireplace, there was a little table sitting there with milk and cookies on it.
“Well, you know how much I love cookies and milk! So I hurried to put all the presents under the tree, and all the time I was thinking about how good those cookies were going to taste. Once I was finished with the presents, I went over to the table and saw a note next to the cookies. And the note said: ‘Dear Santa, I made you these cookies with my Easy-Bake Oven. I hope you like them. Thank you so much! Love, Molly.’
“And I thought, ‘How sweet of Molly to remember that she promised to make me Christmas cookies.’ So I took off my glove, reached over, and picked up the first cookie. It looked so good and I was so excited to taste it. And then I put it in my mouth and bit down into the worst cookie I ever tasted. Do you know why?”
And everyone will ask, “Why?”
“Molly made spinach cookies!”
A giant chorus of “EWWWWWW!!!” invariably follows.
And I reply, “That’s what I said! You know, spinach is good for you, and cookies are good, but the two of them should never be put together. So I just couldn’t eat it. But I didn’t want to break Molly’s heart because she was such a sweet little girl to think of me. So you know what I did? I drank the glass of milk, and I took the cookies with me up the chimney. When I got to the roof, I broke them up into pieces and fed them to the reindeer. But it turns out that wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did. You know why?”
“Why?” they ask, their little eyes wide with anticipation.
“Spinach gives reindeer gas!” And the children all laugh because nothing in the world is funnier to a child than a good toot.
“And so I called them all by name: On Dasher! On Dancer! And all of a sudden, I hear PLBTTTT!!!” and I make a raspberry noise with my tongue and lips. “And I said, ‘Wait a minute, what was that?’ I looked around, because I’m wondering if somebody had hopped into my sleigh. But I didn’t see anybody. So I continued, ‘On Prancer! On Vixen!’ and I hear another PLBTTTT!!! And that’s when I realized it was the reindeer.
“And oh, the smell! It wasn’t a good one, if you know what I mean. It didn’t smell like cookies! And I had to ride around the entire world all night long smelling reindeer toots!” By this point, the children are rolling around on the floor laughing, and I’m usually having a hard time keeping a straight face myself.
In all the years I’ve been telling this story, the funny-bone tickling sound of children’s giggles never fails to do my heart good. Sharing a laugh with kids is a delightful way to put the merry back into one’s Christmas!
TWELVE
Papá Noel the Taxi Driver
PEOPLE ASK ME ALL KINDS OF QUESTIONS about being Santa Claus, from how many pajama visits I can squeeze into a single Christmas Eve (more than a dozen) to how often I have to trim my beard (about three times a year). I’m always happy to answer any question about my Santa adventures, and most are pretty easy. But as the country headed into a recession, I found myself being asked some interesting questions about the role of Santa in tough times that made me stop and think.
One recent conversation in particular stands out in my mind. An acqua
intance of mine had read an article discussing the effect that the tightening economy had on children at Christmas. She asked me, “Have kids changed what they tell you they want for Christmas?”
At first I wasn’t sure what she meant. “You mean, are there different kinds of toys out there?”
“No, no,” she explained. “I mean, with the economy and all, do they ask for fewer toys, or do the parents take you aside and tell you to try to steer their kids away from expensive gifts for Christmas? I’ve been reading that these kinds of things are happening, and I’m curious what you’ve seen.”
I thought about it for a few moments. To be honest, I hadn’t really noticed any change in the kinds of things kids had been asking me for. And no parent has ever told me to steer their child toward fewer presents or less expensive toys on their Christmas list. I guess I should have expected that, given the state of the world and all, but surprisingly, it never happened.
In my personal life, I’ve certainly had plenty of friends over the years who have tightened their own belts in order to give their children a few extra goodies on Christmas. Heck, I’ve even had to do it myself in lean times. But as Santa, I’ve never—not once—had a parent even mention their finances to me. No matter what might be going on for them behind the scenes, when I’m there visiting with their children, they seem to put their worries on hold for a bit and simply enjoy seeing their kids have fun with Santa.
I think that for both children and parents, Santa Claus represents a welcome distraction from the harsher realities of life that many of us have to deal with. Children can tell Santa Claus their hopes and dreams the same way they might wish upon a star. And most parents wouldn’t ever want to dash those dreams or put limits on their children’s innocent optimism. Even in tough economic times—perhaps especially then—Christmas and Santa Claus represent a shining ray of hope. Sure, Santa might not give a child everything he or she wants, and honestly, I don’t think that many children truly expect that. To their little minds, though, it can’t hurt to at least ask, right?
But what happens when a parent has no money at all to spend on any Christmas toys, when even a tree or a wreath is a distant and unrealistic dream? I met someone like this several years ago, someone who needed more than just a little Christmas magic. She needed a full-on Christmas miracle from Santa Claus himself.
ALTHOUGH THE ECONOMIC RECESSION WOULDN’T officially hit for another few years, there were still many folks struggling financially back in 2003. In fact, my family was among them. I no longer owned any small businesses, and the technology company I had worked for the year before had downsized a large number of employees, including me.
My Christmas season Santa Claus appearances wouldn’t kick into gear for another couple of months, so I got myself a job driving a cab. It wasn’t a high-paying job, but it did help keep food on the table, and the hours were somewhat flexible. My fares seemed generally agreeable and friendly, especially to a driver who looked like Santa Claus. Of course, many times the folks in my cab didn’t even see my face because it was either nighttime or simply because the back of my head faced them for most of the ride.
However, sprinkled throughout my runs came a smattering of regular customers whom I got the chance to know a little better—including one that would help make my Christmas that year very memorable.
On a chilly morning run in early November, my dispatcher sent me to one of the poorer neighborhoods in town. As I arrived in front of a large apartment complex, I saw a young woman walk out, holding the hand of a small girl who looked about four years old.
“Are you Donna?” I asked through the open passenger window.
“Yes.” She had a slight Spanish accent, but her English was perfect. “We are making two stops, the first to drop off my daughter at her grandmother’s and then I’ll be heading to work.”
“Sounds good,” I said, as they both slid into the backseat.
More often than not, my adult passengers wouldn’t bother to look at their taxi driver. But the children always did, and I would often catch a glimpse in my rearview mirror of the younger ones staring at me, especially as it got closer to Christmas. While many of my fellow cab drivers often complained about unruly kids acting hyper in their backseats, the children in my cab always seemed to be on their best behavior.
As we drove away from Donna’s home that morning, I noticed her adorable little girl gazing at me intently. She never said a word, but I could see her big chocolate-brown eyes glued to my face the entire time. We dropped the girl off at her grandmother’s house, and I drove Donna to work without much conversation. Sometimes my passengers didn’t want any chitchat, and I respected their privacy. I dropped her off in front of a sandwich shop in a local strip mall, about twenty minutes from where she lived. I found out later from my dispatcher that Donna and her daughter went through this ritual every morning, since there weren’t any buses that traveled anywhere near that strip mall, and Donna didn’t own a car. In the evenings, the taxi company would dispatch another cab to pick up Donna from work, go get her daughter, and then drive them both back home.
A week later, my dispatcher sent me once again to pick up Donna and her daughter. As with the previous trip, I could see the little girl staring at me, even though she still didn’t say a word. This time, when I stopped at the grandmother’s house, I turned around and smiled at my passengers. “Okay, first stop!” I said. The little girl smiled back shyly, still saying nothing.
When Donna returned to the taxi after walking the little girl inside, she told me, “My daughter thinks you are Papá Noel.”
I knew that Papá Noel was how folks referred to Santa Claus in Spanish-speaking cultures. “I get that a lot,” I said. “She’s a beautiful little girl. What’s her name?”
“Ashley,” she said.
“Oh, really? What a coincidence! I have a daughter named Ashley, too, although mine is a teenager now.”
“I am afraid my Ashley will turn into a teenager before I know it,” she said. “They grow up so quickly, don’t they?”
“You can say that again!” I agreed, and we spent the rest of the ride swapping stories about our identically named daughters.
Luck of the draw determined which fares a taxi driver would be dispatched to pick up, and I had only a few runs with Donna and Ashley over the next few weeks. Each time, little Ashley sat there quietly staring at Papá Noel driving her to her grandmother’s house. But Donna and I enjoyed chatting with each other. Despite what I imagined to be somewhat difficult life circumstances, Donna was warm, friendly, and thoroughly positive in her outlook on life.
On the morning of December 23, I got a call to pick up Donna and Ashley again. But this time, something seemed noticeably different. I sensed a cloud of sadness around Donna when I picked the two of them up. As we drove away from Donna’s mother’s house—with Ashley and her grandmother waving good-bye to the taxi—Donna started to cry.
I slowed down and turned around briefly to face her, “What’s wrong, Donna? Are you okay?”
Donna tried to hold back her tears. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m all right.” But the words were swallowed by a choked sob.
I pulled over so I could hand her a box of tissues that I had sitting on the front passenger seat.
“Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s just that I look at Ashley and feel so awful that she won’t have a Christmas.”
“No Christmas? Why?”
Donna seemed hesitant to share her problems with a total stranger, but after a few moments, she composed herself. “Ashley’s father gives us nothing, no child support…nothing. So I have to work long hours just to feed us. With the busy Christmas season, the sandwich shop is open longer, and I take all the extra shifts I can. Every day I work from 8:00 in the morning to 9:00 at night. Then I pick up Ashley and take her home to put her to bed. So now I work seven days a week, and I have no time to buy Ashley any Christmas presents. Not that I could even afford to if I did. Even with the extra shifts, the
re’s no money at all this year for extras. We don’t even have a tree. It’s so unfair for her not to have a Christmas, but I can’t afford not to work…even for one shift.”
I felt so awful. I tried to tell her that everything would be all right and that Ashley had people who loved her, which was the most important thing. But deep down, my heart broke for them.
I dropped Donna off at work and wished her a Merry Christmas as best I could manage. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Donna and her daughter missing Christmas. It all seemed so wrong.
When I got home that night and our family sat down for dinner, Linda turned to me. “Sal, you look like you’re deep in thought.”
I lifted my head from the plate I’d been staring at and said, “Y’know, sometimes I just wish I could be the real Santa.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, today I was in my cab, and I picked up this fare…,” and I went on to tell Linda and my Ashley all about Donna and her Ashley, and how this sweet little girl wouldn’t have any Christmas presents because her mom was working so many hours for so little money.
“Y’know what?” our Ashley said, hopping up from the table, once again amazing Linda and me with her generous spirit. “I’ve got some old things from when I was little. There’s books and some toys and a whole bunch of stuffed animals. In fact, I think a few of those stuffed animals even have the name Ashley sewn into them.” She ran out to the garage and started hunting through boxes.
Linda turned to me. “We could probably give her some money, too, Sal.”
Being Santa Claus : What I Learned About the True Meaning of Christmas (9781101600528) Page 11
