As a journalist, I’ve interviewed combat decorated Tuskegee Airmen, a police officer who stopped a terrorist during an airbase shooting spree. A military commander who launched the first strike into sands of recent wars and September 11 survivors, who staggered to freedom through miraculous circumstances
And while I’ve met enough interesting people to pen a book or two, the most interesting person who kept me in awe, on the edge of my seat, was a man dressed in red, suit trimmed in white, all immaculately framed by a softly trimmed beard and tapestry of white, silken hair.
In case you haven’t guessed, I was sober – and the man’s name was Claus. Santa Claus.
The interview with Santa had been set up by Linda Vopat, director of the Maple Heights Senior Center.
Santa was seated in a private upstairs room at an oaken table.
His spotless white gloves were folded once, fingers to palm, and legs, strong, not fat, comfortably crossed with not a hint of nervousness or uncomfortable energy emanating from a deeply polished boot.
This man who had reached world-wide fame from humble beginnings had transformed an award winning crime reporter to an eight-year-boy wondering why I didn’t get more G.l.Joes and a 10-speed bike.
The interview began.
No matter the question, Santa did not hesitate, nor did he stop to make up an answer in his head.
I actually stopped and looked when I heard a shuffle on the roof. I looked at Santa, then in the direction of the noise.
“Those noisy reindeer,” Santa laughed.
I smiled.
It was around this part of the interview that I heard what could be described as a tinkling truck chain or a flap of loose steel blowing on an antenna pole during a cold Ohio storm – or – or- bells.
I was stunned. I had the interview of a lifetime.
I tossed traditional, non-traditional and questions about world conflicts, religions and why Christmas is celebrated.
They were answered flawlessly.
I found out Santa was truly about peace for all people. And, even to Santa, the true meaning of the day is to “celebrate the birth of a child named Jesus.”
Santa said he was at the birth of Jesus and will continue to honor that child and the work that was started more than 2,000 years ago.
I felt the room almost fill with a peaceful respite. I wanted to help this man. I needed to help this man.
While I wasn’t Santa, I figured I could volunteer a few nights a week to help take calls and notes for Santa.
I knew the Jolly Old Elf was busy and could use the most help on the “Santa Line.”
I build up a list of about five homes, equaling 16 children. The group of brothers, sisters and cousins became part of my first after-Thanksgiving call list.
My calls consisted of asking what was wanted for Christmas, while never promising a special gift.
I gave a list of special treats for Santa and asked the kiddos to set out carrots for the reindeer and reminded them that last minute acts of the nefarious sort could get them placed in the holiday penalty box, with coal taking the place of a favorite gum.
But then things changed. The young ones got wise.
After one movie, a child asked if he could get a bell, from Rudolph’s collar, left under his tree.
What?
I’m no authority, but I think any animal that travelled across the globe in one night, without restroom stops, might have a freshness issue.
Thank goodness for my mom who had a clean bell on a tartan plaid. I hope that little guy still has the bell.
One day a child decided talking Santa wasn’t enough. He wanted to take a step further and wanted to talk to Rudolph.
Funny how Rudolph sounds like a panting puppy who can bark “I love you” and “Merry Christmas.”
Later Mrs. Claus made an appearance in the repertoire.
Luckily for me I have a fair Katherine Hepburn imitation and a decent Carol Channing inside me. If I bring out my Mickey Rooney, it can make for a crazy Mrs. Claus. The kiddos loved it.
I continued my tenure as Santa’s helper for several more years until life, death and puberty began to intervene.
About four years ago it came to a head as all three began happening at once.
The father of three of the boys I called, died when their car was involved in an accident. The dad was not wearing a seatbelt and he was ejected from the car and died immediately.
The boys were just on the cusp of still believing in Santa. Months after the accident I thought we could try and make the boys smile.
“Ho, ho, ho Nealy, what do you want for Christmas?”
I asked in a cheerfully deepened voice.
Nealy, the youngest was quiet for a few moments.
“Santa, the only thing I want this year is for you to bring my daddy back.”
Santa wept.
The only part of that conversation I remember is that said we were not allowed to go into Heaven and bring people back.
It was over. And my heart was destroyed.
Our relationship of Santa and the innocently believing boy was gone.
Santa wept.
I miss Nealy.
I pray for him and his family. My prayers cover him and his family more than ever.
During the recent Covid attack, his mother died, leaving him and his three brothers orphaned.
I knew his mom.
Santa wept.
Santa’s helper comes out once in a while. But the pain is still there.
The boys are living with very loving grandparents.
But that’s not a mommy.
I’m crying now.
As a helper, I have so many tales. And while I‘ll probably forget most of them as time goes on, I’ll never forget my friend
Neally, his brothers Braydon and Miller.
And neither will I forget the joy allowed me by a man named Santa, who knew exactly what December 25, is about.
Merry Christmas dear readers and may God bless us all.
