by Sidney S. Stark
Even though I grew up in New York, most of my Christmases when I was a child were spent out of the city. You might well think my parents were rebelling against the commercialism and hectic pace of the season in a big metropolis; not so.
Actually, my father had an allergic reaction to the celebration of Christmas. Was he some kind of Scrooge who couldn’t get past his own avarice? Far from it; generosity was his middle name. His father was an Episcopal minister (later a bishop) and every Christmas for Daddy and his three brothers was a nightmare when they were growing up in that house.
When I asked my mother once why Daddy hated Christmas so much she told me about how the four little boys had been forced to sit in their living room on stiff chairs while their father opened all the presents first that had been lavished on him by an adoring parish. The children weren’t allowed to touch anything under the tree or open even the smallest gift in their stockings. I used to imagine that scene when I was the same age they must have been then and marvel at the challenge of it. Having little or no patience myself, especially when the spirit of Christmas fills the air, I couldn’t believe little boys all dressed up in church finery would be forced to sit still on stiff chairs while adults enjoyed their own presents. No wonder he hated Christmas!
With the power vested in him by his own parenthood, my father chose to escape Christmas and the Canadian Laurentians became our Christmas destination. The outdoor life and opportunity to ski instead of open presents and squabble suited him to a ‘T’ and I quickly came to prefer that method of celebration too. There was a lot to recommend sharing the joys of nature together. Excess and family quarrels were kept to a minimum. That’s why Christmas in Canada continued at Mont Tremblant even once the children had become the parents. But the children enjoyed it enormously.
Canadians are avid Christmas celebrators and so the atmosphere was redolent with joy and Santa Claus always visited the Inn that was owned by friends of ours. He’d arrive with much thumping of boots at the back door once he’d climbed down in the snow from his real sleigh. He was always ushered in by a blast of frigid Canadian air and avalanches of snow. The shrieks of delight that came from each small child (and even some surprised adults) were followed with presents for every one of the Inn’s guests and each had to receive theirs sitting on Santa’s knee; a practice much enjoyed by the lucky ski pro playing Santa when the guest was a gorgeous snow bunny with romantic intent. But it wasn’t always easy to find just the right Santa for the part.
One year, when we had a grand total of 35 family members together for Christmas including all the grandchildren, there seemed to be a dearth of acceptable Santas. My father was approached by the owner and asked if he would don the costume that year. With the full spirit of a child in the body of an adult my father was delighted to accept the offer. Some of my older sisters who were married and had children of their own were worried that he’d be recognized. My father assured them the costume created an impenetrable disguise. He was right. As I watched his arrival through the snow that Christmas Eve I was hard pressed to believe they hadn’t substituted someone else at the last minute except for one horrific mistake. He’d forgotten to remove his wrist watch.
It was a very distinctive watch that he’d used from his first days as a private pilot and all the children had played with it and knew it was his. The next child up in line was one of my young nephews. I saw him hone in on the watch as he stood waiting his turn. He looked at Santa’s face hard and then looked back at the watch. My heart sank. I knew my father would be able to think fast enough to answer his questions but I doubted it would do any good. But the Q&A on Santa’s knee and bestowing of the gift went smoothly and without incident. Each child was told they could open the present right there with Santa and so they did. My father clearly enjoyed it just as much as the children.
When my nephew’s visit with Santa was over he slid off Santa’s lap and returned to us beaming with delight over the new ski hat that Santa had given him. I asked as casually as possible if he’d seen that Santa had a watch just like his grandfather’s. He answered back immediately with total assurance that it indeed was his grandfather’s watch, not one just like it. I was dumbfounded and for once at a loss for words. My six year old nephew looked up at me, saw the shock on my face, and told me brightly not to worry about his discovery.
“You see,” he offered with glee, “I’ve known all my life that my grandfather was really Santa Claus!”
Question @You: Do you have a special Christmas Eve memory with a grandparent you’d like to share? Please do!