Pull On My Beard

I have a few distinct memories of jolly St. Nick. I remember visiting him once or twice at the mall. One visit in particular is seared into my brain because of the carnage my brother left behind. In an attempt to touch the fake snowbanks in the Christmas Village, he managed to knock over the picket fence border, toppling all nearby decorations in a slapstick domino pile-up. I still recall the shrieks of other children in line, children horrified by the sight of paralyzed mechanical reindeer, (robotically pivoting their necks back and forth, back and forth, the side of their faces scraping against the ground) felled jumbo candy canes and crushed ornaments. Amidst the chaos, Kyle sat in the cotton batting, feeling the material with his fingertips and then loudly declaring, "This isn't real."

I had similar doubts about the legitimacy of Santa Clause. When I finally got to the front of the line and was placed upon his lap, I was more suspicious than impressed. Like those damn snowbanks, he was all fake flash - a beard made of perfect ringlets, a plastic belt buckle, matted fur cuffs. This isn't real.

While Mall Santa embodied all of the tacky wonders of middle America consumerism, Land of Make Believe Santa was a far stranger character. Land of Make Believe Santa lived in the Christmas Barn, one of the many attractions my hometown's kiddie amusement park had to offer. The barn was open year round, enabling children to have a chat with the Big Man in the heat of July. Visitors were escorted through a doorway that resembled a chimney. Upon climbing up a spiral staircase, one entered a gigantic attic filled with light-up displays. At the end of the path sat Santa, waiting patiently, creepily, for an inevitable interaction. While at the Christmas Barn, I refused to even sit on Santa's lap, choosing instead to stand a good five feet away and nod my head vigorously in response to his rhetorical questions. The decision was wise beyond my years. Santa smelled like moth balls and probably was played by Carnies on rotating shifts.

In my mind, if there was a Santa, he was Chris Van Allsburg's version. I had a copy of The Polar Express that came with a read-along cassette. I would take the book and my Casio recorder into my closet, shut the door and listen. The narrator's voice was deep and soothing. The story was also great. In The Polar Express, the main character is doubtful. However, Santa is a smart man, one who weaves the power of belief into the details of ordinary life. A train could take you to New York or the North Pole, a bell was a porch chime or part of a reindeer's harness. Magic was there but you had a choice - you could only see what you wanted to see.