Ghost of Christmas Past

Ours was not a “Santa Claus” family. There were always gifts under our Christmas tree in Birmingham, but never more than two per person. Our custom was to open one on Christmas Eve after coming home from the requisite trip to Anniston, and another on Christmas morning, unless it happened to fall on a Sunday, in which case you had to wait until after Church and after dinner and THEN and ONLY THEN could you open that last present.

One year we packed up the relatively new ’53 Plymouth and headed out. Knowing that the weather in North Alabama that time of year could turn vicious in less than a heartbeat, we always traveled with blankets and candles and a thermos of coffee and a jar of peanut butter.

Our arrival was celebrated with hugs and kisses and proffered orange candy slices Granny always kept for us kids. To get away from the grownups, cousins Lynn and Sue and Phyllis and I soon went off to the back bedroom to share girlish giggles in the dark. Phyllis, the youngest of our crowd, was all aglow and began to tell me what she expected to get from Sandy Claus the next day.

“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus!” I informed her. I saw her face crumple. She dissolved into tears and ran from the room.

Cousin Lynn, from her grown-up perspective of two years my senior, shook her head and said darkly, “You’re gonna get it for that one.”

“What did I do?” I was beside myself. I understood that my youngest cousin was upset, but could not understand why. I stood in the doorway between the rooms and saw Phyllis sobbing into Granny’s lap. Granny was smoothing that beautiful long red hair, saying, “There, there! Yes there’s such a thing as Sandy Claus, of COURSE there is. You just pay no mind to what Patsy Lee said, she don’t know no better.”

We left shortly after that, the weather having (fortuitously for me) deteriorated. And good thing, too. The gentle white flakes of the Saks community soon turned to angry gray pellets; coming down the mountain was hairy, the long narrow Coosa bridge treacherous. By the time we got to Woodlawn, Dad was white-knuckled and Mom had bitten through her lip; I was surprised there was no hole in the floorboard under her right foot.

We did not open any presents that night.

Next morning, sitting on the floor in front of the cheerily blazing hot gas space heater, I opened my one present, was appropriately appreciative, then set it aside and asked the meaning of last night’s incident.

Mom got up and went to her domain in the kitchen, leaving Daddy to do the dirty work. He cleared his throat several times, then explained to me, gently, firmly, succinctly, that it was time I understood something very important in life, that not all people believe the same as I. He “suggested” that in the future I withhold my personal beliefs on any subject until I knew the lay of the land upon which I stood.

As far as I was concerned, that was not a suitable explanation. The importance of Phyllis’ tears faded because by then it really was ALL ABOUT ME. In a few short sentences Daddy told me that he and Mom had decided early on not to raise their children with a belief in Santa, and gifts on just one day, but instead practice giving as the need arose, no matter the calendar. And then he got up and left the room, putting a firm end to the conversation.

Flash forward fifteen years, to a Christmas when oldest brother Larry and I sat midst the detritus of ripped paper and shredded ribbon and watched our children play with their new gizmos. I brought up the ghost of Christmas past to him, and without hesitation he gave the real reason.

Growing up, I didn’t know we were poor, but evidently, compared to most in our community, we were. There was always food on our table, even if it was not a lot, and even if it was just fried potatoes and cornbread and beans; my clothes were homemade, but beautiful; and I always had two new pairs of shoes to start the school year (although one pair was only for Sunday). But because of the circumstance of our income being dependent on that of his policy-holders ability to pay the monthly premium, rather than have us suffer disappointment from unrealistic expectations of a myth, our parents chose to minimize the material and maximize the spirit of the day. It made perfect sense. But it did not prevent me from letting my children believe. For as long as they could. For as long as they would.

This Christmas there are no children, no grandchildren, to share the day with us; no presents under my tree, and no stockings hanging on the fireplace. But there's a Santa on the hearth, in all his little stuffed rotund glory. God bless us, every one.