Solstice morning breaks clear but for a few thin grey clouds on the eastern rim. They are stippled with a warm rosy light. The crisp air smells of snow to come and frosted sage. The patchwork of honey-colored grama grass, tufts of fuzzy-topped rabbit brush and small continents of wet-black cinders flare brightly in the first Jesus rays streaming across the valley toward me. My body has been dictating its own schedule of late and I’m becoming a connoisseur of sunrises. This has been a dark, long night and the brilliant sun is welcome. When I was a child, I had a hard time remembering summer in the depth of winter, unsure whether or not the light would return. I still find myself feeling anxious as the world around me yields to the gravity of mortality and all life returns to the soil. So many friends and heroes have passed away this year, and I had my own peek into the chasm. The brown skeletal stalks of columbine rattling in the flower bed remind me that death and decay is the natural order of things.
I go inside and prepare for one more holiday gig. I look over the Santa suit spread on my bed. After 20 years, the snowy rabbit fur trim against the blood red velvet still makes me catch my breath in wonder. My seamstress crafted this enduring costume to fit my short legs and big belly, and I wear it with pride and satisfaction. The stiff black leather belt is as broad as my hand. It terminates in a heavy solid brass buckle that would be the envy of a ship full of pirates. The conical hat is topped with a perfect ball of white fluffy fur.
I’m taking my place in a bigger act of celebration. Some are celebrating the warmth of family and close friends. Some look forward to an excess of rich food and indulging in drink or smoke. The prospect of uninterrupted sleep makes some folks smile. Many people have repurposed ancient seasonal observations to serve as spiritual metaphors that meet their needs today. It seems rather arbitrary that Santa Claus occupies such a prominent cross-cultural role in our collective consciousness, but who am I to question?
I struggle with the shiny black boots that complete my costume. All those years I worked as a horseshoer have taken their toll on my back—I am thankful I don’t have to cut firewood or lie on my back in the snow beneath a stalled vehicle to earn my keep today. I find the last hole in the belt and resolve not to punch another one. I check myself in the full-length mirror. I adjust my cap with the tassel hanging forward at a jaunty angle and give the bells in my pocket a resounding shake. I’m ready.
En route to the gig, I’m spotted at the traffic light by a woman who honks and waves maniacally. The gangster in the crosswalk smiles broadly and nods. A little girl looking from the rear window of a passing minivan does a double take and tries to get her parents’ attention. Universally recognized, I bask in the goodwill of their projected memories and fantasies.
A line has already formed as I take my designated seat. I think of lottery balls bouncing in a Plexiglas box as the kids careen off the wall and ceiling. Each child has been given a candy cane to boost their energy level; the expression “herding cats” comes to mind. Young couples urge their children forward and fumble with their cellphones. Everyone is issuing posing instructions.
Some children blurt out their Christmas wishes before I can ask. “I want a Nerf gun, Legos, an XRJ 2000 game station, Legos, an iPod, a BB-8, a drone (Me: What would you do with a drone? Child: Spy on my neighbors), Hair Glow Rapunzel, Legos, Hatchimals, a Kindle and Legos.”
Some kids are struck silent. If no requests are forthcoming I offer them a puppy and pony or I say, “When you decide, send me a letter addressed to the North Pole.” My hearing is poor and I miss about half of those entreaties which are breathed in tones soft as a baby’s kiss. I beam and nod as though I am in complete agreement.
I’m sobered by a 12-year-old girl who says, “I just want my family to be happy.” A redheaded boy says, “I want my dad to get well.” I confess that I identify with the rare kids who ask for books or art stuff. Adults give me notice they want $1 million, a new car, world peace or a good man.
The little babies are my favorite. Sometimes they lie so peacefully in my arms while they practice their newly learned trick of breathing air. Their innocence reminds me that there is a promise of hope and rebirth more powerful than my jaded cynicism.
A couple of unbelieving brothers tag team me with a one-two punch, “You’re not the real Santa. Your beard isn’t real.” The younger of the two pulls vigorously on my real beard while the parents look on glowing with pride at their future lawyers. The mother of a screaming child turns and says to her husband, “I’m so glad she’s tuned into stranger-danger.”
It’s possible for me to get discouraged in the midst of this season of looming darkness and driving greed. A boy hands me a list of 15 expensive toys and then in rapid fire launches into a well-rehearsed recitation of items he didn’t have space to write down. I sigh deeply as a lady plops down into my lap a toddler with a fragrant diaper filled with Christmas joy.
The darkness grows until a curly headed 4-year-old looks me in the eye and then whispers in my ear his heart’s desire, “A ball.”
