Why I Believe In Mr. Claus

Mathematicians, physicists and other scientifically-inclined types love to pooh-pooh the Christmas delivery system utilized by Mr. S. Claus of the North Pole, Earth, as being impossible to carry out. According to the geek community, one man, driving an antique sleigh powered by eight “tiny” reindeer, cannot possibly travel to every house, apartment, mobile home (single- as well as double-wide), and other domicile in the Christian world within the roughly 30 hours allotted to carry out the task. What these schmegeges don’t factor in is the “magic quotient.”

 Mathematicians, physicists and other scientifically-inclined types love to pooh-pooh the Christmas delivery system utilized by Mr. S. Claus of the North Pole, Earth, as being impossible to carry out.

According to the geek community, one man, driving an antique sleigh powered by eight “tiny” reindeer, cannot possibly travel to every house, apartment, mobile home (single- as well as double-wide), and other domicile in the Christian world within the roughly 30 hours allotted to carry out the task.

What these schmegeges don’t factor in is the “magic quotient.”

C’mon, how many science teachers did you have who actually possessed a viable set of social skills? These were typically the individuals who, as kids, rarely (if ever) played outside, whether joining in sports or games requiring imagination.

Like Paul McCartney’s grandfather pointed out to Ringo Starr in “A Hard Day’s Night,” the nerds never had adventures because they always had their noses stuck in some “blooming book” — too busy reading about adventures to actually have any of their own.

The fact of the matter is, simply put, Santa Claus is magic.

And, he doesn’t always use a sleigh.

I have my own personal experience to prove this is true:

Back when I was the tender age of eight years, my parents, possessed of a disturbingly low threshold for childhood antics (especially my Mother), told my brother and me in no uncertain terms that they had instructed Mr. C not to stop at our home that year.

Not imagining that Santa himself would be so harsh as to pass our house by, when my brother and I awoke (we always got up well before 5:00 on Christmas morning) and raced to the living room…

Ka-pow!

We were hit full force with a reality that was just about as cruel as any child might envision — there, beneath the tree, was nary a single toy.

In a move designed to force us to respect them, my parents had demolished the best day of the year for us. Instead of instilling us with admiration, what we learned was fear.

And how to be very, very angry.

Speaking only for myself, I felt as though someone had punched me squarely in the gut.

Repeatedly.

Needless to say, the morning went from bad to worse, highlighted by the chill of being compelled to get dressed in our best and go to Mass.

Breakfast would have to wait, as the three-hour rule between eating and communion was in effect.

Although I made every attempt to avoid contact with friends at church, it proved to be an exercise in futility. While kids related in glowing terms tales of lavish, wondrous toys and other loot, I listened in stony silence, fighting back the tears so as not to appear sissified.

I really hated Mass (which I considered more as theater), and the usual sermon about love, understanding, and giving was completely lost on me that Christmas day.

The ride home was about as coldly silent and uncomfortable as any family trip could possibly be.

However, one truly strange thing did occur. About four blocks from our house a late model Chevrolet Impala convertible passed in front of us on a cross street.

Not only was it an oddity that the top was down on Christmas, but the driver was none other than Santa Claus.

True to what one might normally expect, Santa seemed to be laughing with that hearty deportment singular to him.

At the time, we thought nothing more about crossing paths with the Jolly Fat Man than it was some sort of coincidence.

After arriving at home, we moped along into the house, not looking forward to a long Christmas devoid of presents.

Then it hit us.

Upon entering the living room, we were shocked and stunned at the Christmas booty nestled under the tree in full splendor!

Today, I can’t possibly remember precisely which toys, games and whatever else had been laid under the tannenbaum, but I do remember the instant elation.

What had begun as a really crappy Christmas was now a quasi-splendiferous holiday, one that would remain in my memory for the rest of my life – not necessarily for the best reasons.

It was never divulged exactly how that stuff got into the house and under the tree.

We lived in the southwest suburbs, while most of our relatives and family friends lived on Chicago’s Northside. In those days the trip took nearly an hour each way, thus time and space precluded the possibility of it having been any of them.

Among our more local family friends, they all had kids, which meant ducking out on Christmas morning was not a very likely scenario.

And — here’s the topper — we did not know a single person or family that owned an Impala convertible.

To this day, not one person has admitted complicity in the delivery of those presents; Mom and Dad always claimed it was Santa.

Now, after the passage of 50 years and despite the fact that both of my parents are gone, I’m still pissed off at them for that stunt. There are a lot more ways to get the point they wanted to across than subjecting children to the kind of hurt we were forced to endure.

More than any other, that Christmas is the one I remember most vividly from my childhood, and it’s not exactly a holiday filled with cheer.

If you want to give your child a lesson on the true meaning of Christmas, rather than tarnish the memory of the occasion for decades to come, have them spend part of the day with people of less fortunate means.

It’s a far more practical lesson.

The one positive thing I came away with after that experience is that Santa Claus is indeed magic.

So, five decades later I still believe, even if it’s only in the essence and spirit of the Big Guy from the North Pole, and try to always treat others as Mr. Claus probably would.

Well, I guess that in itself is a pretty good thing.

Happy Hanukkah and Merry Christmas!

Shalom.

(Erstwhile Philosopher and former Educator Jerry Tenuto is a veteran who survived, somewhat emotionally intact, seven years in the U.S. Army. Despite a penchant for late-night revelry, he managed to earn BS and MA Degrees in Communications from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. On advice from a therapist, he continues to bang out his weekly “Out Of The Blue” feature in The Lone Star Iconoclast — providing much-needed catharsis. Jerry is also licensed to perform marriage ceremonies in 45 states.)