Yes, Rachel Ann, there is a Santa Claus. Both he and the missus are on Prozac.
The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals is not happy about the hours the reindeer are working on Christmas Eve. There’s some controversy about whether toys made in his workshop are subject to NAFTA, and far too many families would welcome a lump of coal in their stockings in order to keep the home fires burning, considering rising energy prices.
My granddaughter is showing an inordinate interest in the Family Claus. She wants to know if Santa can get into trouble for breaking into houses. Why don’t we leave carrots instead of cookies because he, quite obviously, needs to shed a little weight? How come his nose is red, and why is he still smoking? Who shot the animals for his leather belt and fur boots? Does he belong to the chamber of commerce? Has he ever run for elected office? Is he radio-dispatched? Why doesn’t he use a jet instead of reindeer, and aren’t they deserving of a little snack too? Does insurance cover the cost of repairing the holes on the roof left by the prancing and pawing of eight reindeer?
Is Ms. Claus involved in deciding what’s naughty or nice? Where does she get her hair done? What kind of a vehicle does she drive? Is she a member of the League of Women Voters? Does she need an MBA to supervise all those elves? And why did she opt for elves instead of children? Rachel has sisters, so she is aware running a crew of elves is no day at the beach. But she wants to know whether they are salaried or doing piece work. Are they covered by Social Security and workers’ comp? Was it Mary Poppins or Santa who first decided to use a chimney instead of a door, and why doesn’t he close the flue when he leaves?
Yes, Rachel Ann, you must never doubt there is a Santa Claus. He’s been around for 1,700 years and has been given different names in various countries. Sometimes he’s skinny, more often fat and jolly. Before he drove a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer, he rode a ram or an eight-footed horse. Through the years Santa has doled out money, switches, punishments, gifts and sweets. He’s a versatile guy.
The corncob pipe, red suit and adult presents were added in America, where Clement C. Moore’s classic poem was written in New York City on Christmas Eve 1822, when Moore’s wife sent him dashing through the snow, in a sleigh with jingle bells, to pick up a turkey for the parish poor. Forty years later, Thomas Nast painted the Jolly Old Elf for Harper’s Weekly, and, by the turn of the century, L. Frank Baum, the chap who wrote 14 books about the Wizard of Oz, came out with a biography of Santa’s life in the Laughing Valley of Hohaho at the southern border of Oz.
It was 1897 when The New York Sun urged a little girl named Virginia not to be “affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age.” But like Virginia, Rachel is having trouble wrapping her mind around the economic, environmental, social and political ramifications of being merry this year. She sees that the world is at war, the economy is depressed, and neighbors are arguing in church basements. She knows Santa can’t wrap up Uncle Mark and bring him home from Iraq, feed the starving in Rwanda with ribbon candy, shelter the homeless in gingerbread houses or substitute stuffed toys for health and unemployment benefits.
This year more than ever, we must relish Santa. Acknowledging there is a Santa Claus says you can go home again, share hearth and home, warm heart and hands. Everyone wants to relive happy childhood memories, reminisce about days that probably never happened and mull a little wine. Santa says it’s OK to drag out legends about Christmas trees, angels, yule logs and candy canes. He knows that poinsettia plants are not deadly but that life without innocence, imagination and romance is.
Yes, Rachel, there is a Santa Claus. He represents giving without expecting anything in return, and it’s OK if he sometimes uses Mom’s wrapping paper.
