A CHRISTMAS STORY
a true
story
by Jay
Frankston
Thereıs nothing so beautiful as
a childıs dream of Santa Claus. I know, I often had that dream. But I was
Jewish and we didnıt celebrate Christmas. It was everyone elseıs holiday and
I felt left
out . . . like a big party I wasnıt invited to. it wasnıt the toys I missed,
it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree. So when I got married and had kids
I decided to make up for it. I started
with a seven-foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of
David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were
frayed by the display and, for them, it was a Hanukah bush. And it warmed my
heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my
house and everyone was invited. But something was missing, something big and
round and jolly, with jingle bells and a ho! ho! ho! So I bought a bolt of
bright red cloth and strips of white fur and my wife made me a costume.
Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny frame, but no amount of makeup
could turn my face into merry old Santa. I went around looking at department
store impersonations sitting on their thrones with children on their laps
and flash-bulbs going off,
and I wasnıt satisfied with the way they looked either. After much effort I
located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me, a rubberized Santa
mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair. It was not the real
thing but it looked genuine enough to live up to a childıs dream of St.
Nick. When I tried it on something happened. I looked in the mirror and
there he was, big as life, the Santa of my childhood. There he was . . . and
it was me. I felt like Santa, like I became Santa. My posture changed. I
leaned back and pushed out my false stomach. My head tilted to the side and
my voice got deeper and richer and a ³MERRYCHRISTMAS, EVERYONE.²For two
years I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and
delight and to my total enjoyment. And when the third year rolled around,
the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he needed more
room than I had given him. So I sought to accommodate him by letting
him do his thing for other children. I called up orphanages and childrenıs
hospitals and offered his services free. But, ³We donıt need Santa, we have
all sorts of donations from foundations and . . . thank you for calling. And
the Santa in me felt lonely and useless. Then, one late November afternoon,
I went to the mailbox on the corner of the street to mail a letter and
saw this pretty little girl trying to reach for the slot. She was maybe six
years old. ³Mommy,are you sure Santa will get my letter? she asked. ³Well,
you addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it,² the
mother said and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into
the box. My mind began to whirl. All those thousands of children who wrote
to Santa Claus at Christmas time, whatever became of their letters? One
phone call to the main post office answered my question. They told me that,
as of the last week of November, an entire floor of the post office was
needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from different
sections of the city. The Santa in me went ho! ho! ho! and we headed down to
the post office. And there they were, thousands upon thousands of letters,
with or without stamps, addressed to Santi Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris
Kringle, scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationary.
And I rummaged through them and laughed. Most of them were gimme, gimme,
gimme letters, like ³I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a
GI Joe, and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else
you can think of. Many of them had the price alongside each item . . with or
without sales tax. Then there were the funny ones like: ³DearSanta, Iıve
been a good boy all of last year, but if I donıt
get what I want, Iıll be a bad boy all of next.²And I became a little
flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children. But the
Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack and I continued going
through the letters, one after the other, until I came upon one which jarred
and unsettled me. It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said:
³Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two
little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is
sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want
nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, cause mommyıs cold at
night.²It was signed Suzy. And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me
cried, ³I hear you Suzy,I hear you.² And I dug deeper into those sacks
and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from
the depth of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to the nearest
Western Union office and sent each child a telegram: ³GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL
BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.²I knew I could not
possibly fill the need of all those children and it wasnıt my purpose to do
so. But if I could bring them hope. If I could make them feel that their
cries did not go unheard and that someone out there was listening . . . So I
budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys. I wasnıt content with
the five-and-ten cent variety. I wanted something substantial, something
these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope,
or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV. And on Christmas Day I
took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasnıt exactly a
sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around because with all those
pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the back seat. It had graciously
snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. My
first call took me to the outskirts of the city. The letter had been from a
Peter Barsky and all it said was: ²Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am
an only child.Weıve just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no
friends yet. Iım not sad because Iım poor but because Iımlonely. I know you
have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for
me. So I donıt ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you
send me al etter so I know you exist.² My telegram read: ³DEAR PETER, NOT
ONLY DO I EXIST BUT IıLL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.²We
spotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa
got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through
the snow. The house was wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was
of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked
through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the
door. He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants.
³Boje moy ² he exclaimed in astonishment. Thatıs Polish, by the way, and his
hand went to his face.³P-p-please . . .² he stuttered,³p-please . . . de boy
. . . de boy . . . at mass . . .church. I go get him. Please, please wait.²
And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and, assured that I would wait,
he ran down the street in the snow. So I stood in front of the house feeling
good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and
through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me
and waving. Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me ³Hya
Santa² . . . ³Hya Santa².And I ho! ho! hoed my way over there and this woman
asked if I would come in and I did. And there were these five young kids
from one to seven years old. And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the
spirit of love which is the spirit of Christmas. Then, since they were not
on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they
had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them
during the night. And each in turn thanked me for. . . the woolen socks, and
the sweater, and the warm new underwear. And I looked at them and asked:
³Didnıt I bring you kids any toys? And they shook their heads sadly. ³Ho!
ho! ho! I slipped up,² I said ³Weıll have to fix that.² I told them to wait,
Iıd be backin a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the
corner. And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the
car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up the bag,
and I trodded back to the house and gave each child a brand new toy. There
was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of
Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not? And when Santa got ready to
leave, I noticed that this five-year old little girl was crying. She was as
cute as a button. I bent down and asked her ³Whatıs the matter, child?² And
she sobbed, ³Oh! Santa,Iım so happy.² And the tears rolled from my eyes
under the rubber mask. As I stepped out on the street, ³Pan, pan, proche . .
. please come . . . come,² I heard this man Barsky across the way. And Santa
crossed and walked into the house The boy Peter just stood there and looked
at me. ³You came,²he said. ³I wrote and . . . you came². He turned to his
parents. ³I wrote . . . and he came.² And he repeated it over and over
again. ³I wrote . . . and he came.² And when he recovered, I spoke with him
about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed
to be what he would go for, and a basketball. And he thanked me profusely.
And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her
husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little and
understand a lot. ³From the North Pole,² I said in Polish. She looked at me
in astonishment. ³You speak Polish?² she asked.³Of course,² I said. ³Santa
speaks all languages.² And I left them in joy and wonder. And I did this for
twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office,
listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened envelopes. In time I
learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid
who would stop Santa on the street and ask: ³Hey,Santa, whereıs your
sleigh?² And Iıd say, ³How old are you son?² And heıd say, ³Thirteen.And Iıd
say, ³Well, youıre a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to
come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car
now.² And Iıd hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off. Or the kid
who would look at me closely and come out with, ³Thatıs a mask,² pointing a
finger. And you never lie to children so Iıd say, ³Sure, son, of course. If
everybody knew what Santa really looks like theyıd bother me all year
long and I couldnıt get my things ready for Christmas. Or the mother who
would whisper so her young son couldnıt hear, ³Where do you come from? Iıd
turn to the child and say, ³Your mom wants to know where I come from Willy.²
And heıdsay, ³From the North Pole, Mommy,² with absolute certainty. And
sheıd nudge me and whisper, ³You donıt understand. Who sent you? I mean, how
do you come to this house?² Iıd turn to the boy and say, ³Hey, Willy, your
mom wants to know why I came to see you.² And heıd say, ³Cause I wrote him a
letter, Mommy. And Iıd pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and
sheıs confused and bewildered and Iıd leave her like that. As time went on,
the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on anonymity, but
toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to
the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20 children and wound up with
120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve
through Christmas Day. And on my last call, a number of years ago, I knew
there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was
small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at
the telegram and repeating to their skeptical mother, ³Heıll come, Mommy,
heıll come. And as I rang the door bell the house lit up with joy and
laughter and ³Heıs here heıs here! And the door swings open and they all
reach for my hands and hold on. ³Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa. We just knew
youıd come. And these poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take
each one of them on my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and
tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.And all the
while thereıs this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl
with blond hair and blue eyes. And when Iım through with the others, I turn
to her and say: ³Youıre not part of this family are you?² And she shakes her
head sadly and whispers, ³No.³Come closer,child,² I say, and she comes a
little closer. ³Whatıs your name?² I ask.³Lisa.² ³How old are you?² ³Seven.²
³Come, sit on my lap,² and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her
up and sit her on my lap. ³Did you get any toys for Christmas?² I ask. ³No,²
she says with puckered lips. So I take out this big beautiful doll and,
³Here, do you want this doll?² ³No,² she says. And she leans over to me and
whispers in my ear, ³Iım Jewish. And I nudge her and whisper in her ear,
³Iım Jewish too. Do you want this doll?² And sheıs grinning from ear to ear
and nods with wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs
out.Itıs been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that
Santa has lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those
years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long
enough to say, ³Ho! ho! ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend.² And I say
to you now, MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIENDS.
³A Christmas Story² is
published by the author
and is available in hard cover
for Price on request
from WHOLE LOAF PUBLICATIONS
41201 Airport Road, Little
River, Ca. 95456
(707) 937-0208 e-mail
wlp@mcn.org
web site at:
http://www.mcn.org/a/wlp/christmas/ |
