The Red Suit

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

The Suit

 

Late fall of ’87, I decided to buy myself a new suit.  Red.  With white trim.  Seasonal, for sure. 

 

Yup!  I was going to buy myself a gen-u-wine Santa Suit!  For years I’d toyed with the idea of having my own outfit, but never had the means or reason to make the purchase.  Well, come to think of it, I still had no reason to, other than a whimsical desire.  I did have the means, however, so I surrendered to the notion and set about shopping.

 

Of course, there was no Internet.  And no Amazon Dot Com, where now you can choose from literally hundreds of getups whilst lounging in your recliner.  However, we DID still have that mainstay of pre-cyber shopping, the Sears Roebuck catalog.  And, by golly, Messrs. Sears and Roebuck had a pretty darn good selection of their own.  I was in!

 

I studied the entries.  I compared every listed feature, and not knowing any “Santas” personally nor having our modern one-through-five star rating scales, finally made my decision.  As I recall, it was not the MOST expensive model; somehow I just couldn’t justify red velvet.  Just didn’t seem practical at all.  I eventually decided on a “middle of the pack” model (which I thought was actually better!) and made the call.  Credit card in hand, speaking with a real human being (she actually giggled when I told her the catalog number and description), and asked that it be delivered to my office, in San Francisco, rather than our home in Vallejo.

 

A week or so later, the mailroom kid plopped a surprisingly small box onto my desk.  Compact, but full of cool stuff!  Red pants.  Red coat, with white faux fur trim.  Red hat, also with white faux fur trim.  Funky black vinyl belt with a honkin’ big buckle, and funky black vinyl “boot tops” to wear with any black shoes.  Also with white faux fur trim.

 

Oh!  And of course, the beard!  It too was funky, but would do for the time being. All in all, I was plumb tickled.

 

Now, come on Christmas!

 

Of course, Christmas finally arrived.  My bride of less than a year and a half had to work Christmas eve, but that worked out well.  After leaving our friend’s party early, we made it home in time for her to change into her scrubs, load up a basket of holiday snacks and head off to her “night shift” job as a nurse in the local Kaiser Hospital emergency room (they don’t like the term “graveyard shift” in hospitals, I’ve noticed).  A quick kiss goodnight, and she was off.  And I shifted into “scramble mode.”  Pulling gifts out of hiding and gift wrapping, then strategically placing under the tree.  Staging goodies for breakfast in the morning.  And, most importantly, staging my spanking-brand-new Santa suit!

 

Morning came.  I was up early… the bride was due home about nine A M and I was going to be ready.

 

Sure ‘nuff, right on time – actually, not… she was about forty-five minutes late.  More on that in a moment.

 

But I heard her drive up and I was ready.

 

The door of the “Titian Red” Volkswagen Jetta closed.  There was a rustle of bags, the creak from the screen door, slight rattle of the key in the lock.  The door swung inward, the bride stepped into the room, but before she could close the door she gasped and dropped her parcels.

 

She stared uncomprehendingly and wide-eyed at a strange, bewhiskered man in red, with white hair cascading from beneath his red cap.  Seated in the rocker next to the Christmas tree, booted feet stretched out in front.  Sound asleep in her living room, snoring softly, little glasses perched atop a round nose, open mouth in a perfect “O” shape peeking through the lush white foliage of the full beard and mustache.

 

As she stood there, paralyzed, the man suddenly yawned, stretched wide, opened his eyes and, spotting the exhausted and astonished nurse, let loose with a hearty “HO Ho ho…!  Merrrry Christmas!”

 

It was perfect, as it turned out.  Evidently, it had been a horrible night in the ER, with the staff having to deal with unspeakable crises on the special eve.  The Santa shock broke the grip of depression that had held her… and in short order she was smiling .

 

Gifts exchanged, breakfast pastries – and eggnog – downed, and I was advised that we were off to visit our friends Bob and Melissa; Mel had shared the horrid evening, and the bride thought she too would be be cheered up by a visit from Santa.  Besides, we had gifts for them – and Mel indeed was delighted.

 

The following year, I donned the suit for a midnight visit to my niece, Mary.  After that, it saw very little use for several years.  Once for photos with my infant son, Christmas of ’91, then back into the box.

 

By 1994, the “Kid” was three years old and about to spend his first Christmas at our new home in Madera Ranchos.  It was time.

 

We explained to him the Santa role, and told him that we just MIGHT get a glimpse of the Jolly Old Elf on Christmas Eve.  Sure enough, about midnight, his ma woke the lad and the two of ‘em hid in the laundry room.  As they peeked past the pocket door, though the kitchen and dining area into the “library,” Santa himself hove into view!  Dragging a large red bag stuffed with goodies, the fat li’l guy stocked the tree apron with a sizeable pile of gifts, then slipped out of sight with a soft “Ho ho ho..!”

 

Although he was trembling with excitement, the youngster had no problem climbing into Mom and Dad’s bed and slipping back into a deep and sound sleep.  Shortly after sunrise, though, his eyes popped open, he sat bolt-upright, and declared “Mom!  Dad!  We gotta get up!!  Santa came last night!  Let’s GO!”

 

Well, I was still darned sleepy, and suggested he venture forth, investigate, and report back.  Nothing doing!  We HAD to get up and go with him!

 

Okay.  We did.  Hot mugs of coffee in hand, Christmas music playing in the background, we were finding tremendous joy in watching the li’l guy open his gifts.  Suddenly, he looked at me, and with a sly grin made the observation “Hey, Dad!  Know you what?  Santa has boots EXACTLY like yours! Heh heh heh….”

 

Uh oh.  Not quite busted, but darned close.

 

By the following Christmas, I had worked out a plan.

 

A week or so before the holiday, I visited my friend Dan.  Dan had a daughter about a year older than Ryan, and we worked out a strategy:  We would each dress in the suit, and visit each other’s house on Christmas Eve, waking the kids, who would suspect nothing, since each would have their Dad present when Santa appeared.  And, to make sure they did nothing rash, we each made it clear to our respective offspring that extreme care had to be taken when spying on Santa.  After all, it was a well-known fact that if Santa caught you peeking, he would not only leave, but would take back all the presents and would NEVER return.

 

And it worked.  It worked well indeed!

 

Starting at our house.  The “Kid” was sound asleep.  Dan showed up just before midnight, and we got him costumed.  The game plan was that Santa would arrive with the sound of sleigh bells (straps shaken by Santa as he walked up the driveway) growing louder as he approached, accompanied by the barking of every dog within a half mile announcing his arrival.  And, right out of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, the old boy calling to his reindeer: “Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen, On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem…”

 

Then, a light thunder of hooves as the reindeer alighted (large bowl of ice cubes tossed by the handful onto the roof was very convincing).  Thumps, as Santa crawled down an outside wall (our woodstoves did not have proper chimneys, dontcha know – besides, the cold weather necessitated a lively fire!).  The creak of hinges as he crept through the front door.  When reaching a pre-determined staging area, he set down his bulging sack, pulled a fancy scroll from his bag, and made a show of reading the kid’s name and his requests straight from the letter sent to the North Pole!

 

Presents pulled from the bag and placed under the tree, with light “Ho ho’s….”  When the task was completed, Santa would find a plate of cookies and take one with an expression of appreciation.  Then, he’d grab the offered carrots for the reindeer and slip back out the door.

 

When outside, more thumps as Santa climbed back to the roof.  Carrots snapped off, with the tops tossed onto the roof – evidence clear of the reindeer’s sharing the bounty.

 

During the visit, I held the trembling child tightly.  Initially, he was too terrified to look, as we again hid in the laundry room – the prospect of being caught by Santa was too terrible to even consider.  Finally, though, he dared to peek between fingers, through the tiny crack of the door.

 

When Santa was gone, he expressed the urgent need to return to bed.  Mom and Dad’s, of course.  One could not be too cautious with strange fat flying elves in the neighborhood, gifts or not.

 

Gratefully, he was almost immediately snoozing soundly, enabling my escape to swap roles with Dan.

 

The same routine at his house.  Only Gabrielle, his six-year old, was awakened for the event… her older two sisters were left to sleep through the visit, to be incredulous when told the story in the morn.

 

We repeated the scenario exactly, with one exception:  As further proof of the reindeer’s presence, when we were done, Dan collected a scoopful of burro poop from a stall and tossed said evidence atop the roof along with carrot tops.  He reasoned – correctly – that little girls would not be able to tell the difference between reindeer and burro sign.

 

Evidently, our presentations were quite impactful on the youngsters.  Ry believed.  Gabrielle believed, and when she told the story to her sisters the next morning, insisted that she saw Santa and his reindeer-drawn sleigh fly right across the face of the full moon.  (The moon was dark, only one night past the new moon).  Of course, they were total skeptics.  Until Gabrielle took them outside and pointed to the irrefutable confirmation on the roof.

 

Well, this was to remain a memory for the Kid; I put the suit away for good.  Almost.

 

A few years later, the missus was working at the Fresno Community Medical Center.  That Christmas season, she advised me that that I was to break it out and play Santa for their annual family Christmas party. 

 

I was reluctant; she was insistent.  Of course, she won.

 

I had to acquire a new beard, and upgraded.  I will admit, that with the new whiskers and makeup, I looked good.

 

But that was to be the last time I played Santa.

 

The event itself went well.  As mentioned, I looked good, and I will modestly admit that I did an excellent Santa, and actually felt a bit of pride of accomplishment afterward.

 

Unfortunately, that feeling was to be short-lived.

 

I was shocked when I received a scathing email from a senior staffer the next day.  It seems that this gentleman’s six-year old daughter had refused to go to bed that night.  And of course, it was MY fault for telling her that Santa would visit; she insisted on staying up all night and waiting for me.  And of course, the parents did not believe in telling their children they had to do anything.  Parental responsibility did not surmount a child’s right to make her own decisions, don’tcha know.  They could only suggest or request.  And their little girl flatly rejected their suggestion, eventually falling asleep on the sofa and awakening in a sour mood in the morning – and it was MY fault; I was a cretin and should be ashamed of myself, and probably had no right to live.

 

I was done being Santa.

 

Ah well…  it WAS wintertime; I suspect the term “snowflake” could have been coined for this very person.

 

I still have the outfit.  I have loaned it; however, I never again donned it myself.  But it was delightful for a while.

 

                                                           

[Subdeacon Joe]

We didn't get that elaborate.   But for a few years we did make a big deal about making sure the fire was out early "So Santa won't get burned. "  Then, after the kids were asleep I  took a pair of boots,  made prints with them in the ash, a little drag mark where Santa scuffed the toe of one boot, some ash kicked out  onto the hearth, and some ash foot prints.   Also a bite out of each type of cookie and a swig from the glass of milk, being careful to leave lip prints and a drop of milk running down the glass, and the crumpled napkin on the plate.

[Badger Mountain Charlie SASS #43172]

My wife and I still chuckle when we discuss our Christmas. Circa 1963, we were living in Detroit. My in-laws lived about a mile from us. The program was that we took turns helping Santa with the shopping, and Grandma and Grandpa were willing co-conspitors. Comes Christmas eve. Girls are charged with excitement. After several failed attempts, we finaly got them settled down and in bed. Sleep took a little longer, but father time took over and they went to sleep from sheer exhaustion. I grabbed the car keys and headed over to get the loot. When I got home we quietly put the gifts under the tree. It was around 0230 hours when we placed our head on the pillow. I remember chuckling and telling Gloria how clever we were. Then I heard it and I froze. Diane, the older daughter said in a whispered voice, "Krissy, get up! He has been here!" They stopped in the hall , turned and ran into our room, jumped on the bed yelling "Daddy, Mommy , get up! Santa has been here" !

 

We had an early gift exchange. Of course there was no getting them back in bed until some time later when they ran out of go juice. I never did get a nap to help me, and neither did Mom.