Visiting Santa Claus

A special treat for a little girl with her father.

The photo is of our Christmas Eve table with the picture of my Dad on the right and Uncle Harvey on the left. Harvey died on Christmas Eve 2007 and I lost my Dad on December 18, 1994. He was such a caring father, always had my back in the dynamics that kept us from being a truly loving family. Harvey shared lots of family stories which I written down for my genealogy pages. To honor these two men who hold such a positive influence in my life, we include them in our holiday celebration. Over the years, I've also written a lot of poems and vignettes about Dad. What follows is just one.

Every time I watch "It's a Wonderful Life" where James Stewart runs joyously down Main Street, yelling "Merry Christmas, Bedford Falls," I think of downtown Sugarhouse, a suburb of Salt Lake City, UT. It acquired that cute moniker because of the beet processing plant located there decades ago. In fact, it was gone by the time I was old enough to remember anything; replaced by an ice producing plant that also ran a skating rink and swimming pool.

Sugarhouse is much changed since the 1950s when it was the closest thing to "downtown" in my child's world. There were lots of shops where we bought my school clothes, a small movie theater where Dwayne and I would spend all day Saturdays, and a glorious library where I graduated from the children's library to the adult room and received my own card. Now, only the library still exists. All else is scraped away for towering condos and chain stores.

There used to be a little hut where Santa used to sit and listen to children's Christmas wishes, but maybe it's gone too. Back then, though, I got a chance to talk to the man himself.

One chilly evening before Christmas, Mom, Dad, my sister Becky, and I went to see the animated window vignettes at Southeast Furniture. Colorful lights, piles of snowy fluff, and miniature human figures in Victorian villages created the spirit of magic. Trains, tiny skaters on frosted mirrors, and dare-devil acrobatics teased our imaginations. When Mom and Becky disappeared into the stores, Dad took my hand. He had a special surprise just for me.

Because Dad worked all day, I only saw him for an hour or two before bedtime at night. He would read the funnies in the paper to me on Sunday mornings but usually he was tired and also had a lot of yard work to do. Yet he wasn't grumpy or angry as some of my friends' fathers seemed to be.  I even witnessed my friend and her brothers getting a hardy spanking by her father right after he came home. We had been a bit too rambunctious playing that day and they were being punished. Seeing the force of his punishment shocked and scared me. My father never spanked me. I was always happy to see him come home from work. Sometimes he and Mom would argue at night when Becky and I were in bed. Their voices terrified me, but he never yelled at me when I was little. His hand holding mine that evening was big and warm, making me feel safe alone with him as we walked down this dark street.

It was a block to the middle of Sugarhouse where a giant monument to the Mormon pioneers and Utes divided the road through town. There at the eastern end of the monument, Santa Claus sat inside the glassed-in hut, his glossy beard and scarlet fur-trimmed coat aglow in the twinkling lights. A long line of children shivered outside, waiting to talk to him like mendicants claiming their share of toys.

The ornate throne that supported his massive body contributed to my childish notion that he was a very important person, even more so than the President. It wouldn't be polite to waste his time or clam up just as he hoisted me on his lap. Touching each finger on one hand, I counted all the things I wanted. Some of it, I made up. I had to say something. This was a special occasion and I didn't want to hurt Dad's feelings for taking me to visit Santa.

From what I've heard about Dad's early years and the poverty in which his mother and five siblings lived, there were Christmases when Santa didn't come to their house. Dad used to leave at dinner times to hang out with his buddies so there would be more food on the table for the others. I realized then that whatever faith Dad and his sisters and brother had in Santa was quickly dashed by reality. There was no Santa sitting in a little hut, ready to talk to him about what toys he wanted.

Little by little, the line shortened. At last, it was my turn. I stood, frozen literally and emotionally as he beckoned me to step forward into the light. A gentle nudge of my father's hand urged me to comply. Two huge gloved hands lifted me onto Santa's knee and, with a hearty ho-ho-ho, he said, "And what can I bring you for Christmas, little girl."

I stared into his eyes and at the dark hairs showing from under his bushy white eyebrows. For some reason, he didn't call me by name. Surely, with all his magical talents, he must know it was this "little Susie" who wanted the Shirley Temple doll.

Finally, I breathed in a great gulp of air and rattled off my list of toys, touching my fingers as if adding up numbers in class. When finished, what bit of air left in my lungs whooshed out of me in a comical sigh that inspired both Santa and my father to chuckle. I slid off Santa's lap, turned and thanked him for talking to me, and clutched Dad's hand. It was over.

Strange how it had been so scary. Yet it was pleasant too. I got to meet and talk to Santa! I figured then that Dad probably never took Becky to meet Santa because she would've told me all about it. Maybe. She was six years older than me and thought I was just a bothersome little squirt. There was probably a whole world of things Becky never shared with me. Even so, I had a very special time with my Dad that evening. Just me and him visiting Santa Claus.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore other stories, poems, and essays in the Ring Around the Basin Archives.