Impending doom in Ohio

Memories of my childhood are in Technicolor despite the fact that history displays them in black and white. Each picture in mom’s scrapbook is a springboard to a story. Today I opened that carefully pasted and dated album to a photo of Santa Claus and shivered. Before the age of four he is my only memory.

In September of 1945 the world celebrated VJ day, but Impending doom lurked in Ohio. Dad's job and free housing ended and my personal Santa Claus was transferred.

Dad turned down job after job and mother grew anxious until he settled on the one he felt was perfect. We moved in time to hear a Christmas Eve knock at the door and a familiar ho ho ho. Dad's perfect job carried us to Santa’s hometown.

I believed in the magic of Christmas until the day our fifth grade teacher read a poem that ended, “Isn’t it too bad there is no Santa Claus.” I gasped. My classmates looked away. No doubt they remembered their own pain when they lost Santa at a much earlier age. My imagination and positive personality rode on the wings of fantasy much longer than my older classmates.

 
In third grade I looked out my window to see dad running from the car carrying a small yellow and pink Easter basket. The next morning that same basket was filled with chocolate eggs. For years I pretended belief in the Easter Bunny only as a guarantee of a fix of chocolate.

In fourth grade, I felt a hand slip under my pillow and my eyes opened to see mom's round butt and seamed nylon legs crawling from my room. Bye Bye tooth fairy. Although I lost belief in characters that I had never met. Santa was different. He wasn't a basket of eggs, he wasn't a quarter-filled envelope. He was real.

I raced home and knocked on the door. The same door Santa entered for the past seven years. My tear streaked face demanded honesty. Mom took me on her lap and told me that truths to some were lies to others. I should analyze everything and choose what was important to me. As I grew, my truths might change but it was always my choice. It was a lot for a fifth grader to absorb and I braced for the worst Christmas of my life.  

For four days I analyzed and tried to decide. Was there a Santa or was he a sham? Sure, I had given up the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, but was I ready to give up on Santa? He was real, they weren’t. As I listlessly tossed a fallen piece of tinsel onto the tree I heard the sound of bells and the familiar ho ho ho. I flung open the door and stood staring. A cheery-faced man wearing a dime-store beard and shabby costume broke into a chubby smile. I embraced him as the wonderful human that he was. He stayed until the year he waved his final goodbye

Thinking back on that period of my life, I realize that his visits were essential to my self-esteem. Every year, he wrote about me in his big black book and proved that I mattered. I was important to more than just my family and friends. I was important to Santa Claus. His dedication solidified my belief that ordinary people do magical things that make a difference.