Not many people know this, but I really have wanted to be Santa Claus for as long as I can remember. When I say this, I mean that I actually wanted to *be* Santa – as in, when I was younger, I would picture myself becoming a 400 pound man that’s always cheerful and giving gifts all of the time. I envisioned myself with a white beard and long white hair (and as such I was thrilled to see my Dad’s hair coming in white and not gray – I think white hair is more attractive that gray hair). You know, the whole routine. What satisfaction it would bring me if I was the jolly fat guy that always wore red and ate cookies and drank milk. Fantastic!
Well the dream still lives, as I was explaining to Shannon. (It’s the reason The Santa Clause is one of my favorite movies!) I still wish that I was Santa. Although, now I realize that it is probably not so healthy to be 400 pounds, and that, at that weight, I’d be lucky to have a full head of hair, let alone a foot-long beard. But, alas, I still envision myself being the joyful sap that loves to spread the Christmas cheer, that loves to be ever-happy. It would be an honor to live in the footsteps of a guy that makes people so durn happy. And then I began thinking to myself. “Self… where did this desire come from? Self… why did you (okay, okay… do you) want to be this guy so badly?” And all the questions lead me to the same answer – Christmas in my house and in my family has always been such a pleasurable and immensely enjoyable time. Santa is my parents. My parents are Santa. One encapsulates the other. When I want to be the man that is Santa (I realize as I lay snuggled in my bed here elated and drunk on Christmas Eve of 2004) I want to live in the image of my parents. My mom and dad have done such a fantastic job of stoking my imagination and desire to please, that it was only natural that I would want to BE the man (BOP!) with all (BOP!) the toys (BOP!). This desire to give and want nothing in return rises from the everyday actions I witness from both my parents. And from this rearing, this desire to be Santa, to be the giving man, grew increasingly strong.
Ever since I was about 7 years old, I would dress as Santa for the family on Christmas Eve. Yes, I did say seven! The first year we did not have a fireplace, and since we moved on my fifth birthday into this new house (and got a fireplace shortly after the second Christmas), we deduce it was around age 7. (I was surprised I was this young. I had assumed I was about 9 or 10). From this age and for about 9 years, the tradition was that, on Christmas Eve and before hanging our stockings and reading “”Twas the Night Before Christmas,” Santa (cough, me, cough) would hand out all of the gifts that we bought for each other (and our parents). Now, back in this day, these gifts were usually physically trite, but the thoughts behind them were touching. We used to wrap up our old toys and pass them down the line, or we would wrap up dead batteries, as was the old favorite gift, and give them to young ones that simply would enjoy the act of unwrapping a gift, and who, which was usually the case, would enjoy playing with the wrapping paper more than the “toy.” It was great fun!
My gifts were always pretty good to my brothers and sisters. And, I’m not boasting (Okay, maybe I am just a little bit); I just ended up with more money than they did because almost every year I would win the Mapes 5 & 10 coloring contests. I would always get cutesy with these contests, which consisted of coloring in a line drawing of a winter or Christmas scene. I’d take creative license, and I would add unique touches to it. I remember one time, the drawing was an image of Santa checking his list. I pasted a photograph of my mom in the background, drew a frame around the photograph and added some accessories (like a red and white striped hat). I labeled this faux “painting” with a plaque reading: “Mrs. Claus.” Every year, I remember anticipating the call from the Mapes store, saying that I had won again. I do not remember being disappointed ever – but I could have blocked that loser-year out of my memories. ;-x
I would have a sack (cough, trash bag, cough) full of our gifts to each other, and would pull them out one at a time, each time calling out the name on the present. They would have to come up and sit on my lap – the whole spiel. Then Santa would leave, and Brian would miraculously show up.
I can remember the first time we did this. Sara was our ringleader back in the day, and I guess she was about 10. This was her delightful scheme – she was the costume designer and producer of the whole event.
On a quick aside, Sara always was the leader. She had the power to brainwash us with wit and device. Just take a look at a song she made up to the tune of We Three Kings, and would have us all bellowing, shortly after our fireplace was put in and our kitchen was completely remodeled… “We 10 kids of JoAnn and Pat. Just destroyed the fii-iiii-rrre-place. Now, we’re moving to the kii-i-tchen, following our tall leader. [Sara – tall?! She was good… or we hadn’t peaked. Take your pick] Ohhhh Ohhhhh! We’re not stupid, no indeed. We just like to follow the lead….” Like little drones, we followed her every word.
Well, she had the whole event planned, with elves and the whole bit, and me, at seven, so eager to become The Big Guy. I was still all gung-ho about Santa and still believed whole heartedly in him and his magic.
Okay, sorry, another short tangent here on how I actually stopped believing in Santa (I lie – I still believe, but keep it on the DL). I didn’t stop believing until dang-well near 5th grade if I remember correctly – very late indeed.
My parents were always such clever folk (especially my pops) that brought much joy and imagination to our house around Christmas time. Again, as I reminisce, this only heightened my love affair with the season. The creativity and magical atmosphere was so amazing and so real to me. For example, at Easter, my parents left chocolate chunks on the carpet and would tell us that the Easter Bunny left droppings. Or another year, a corn-cob pipe was left on Christmas day next to the annual letter Santa wrote to the kids (he had horrible handwriting). Another year, Santa’s coat got snagged on the fireplace as he was going back up the chimney, and must have been in a rush because he forgot to turn around and get the coat. We still have the coat, which had a glittery (very Mom-ish) “S” on the front pouch. Mrs. Claus must have made him another coat, because we have had it for over 10 years. These would not always be the most elaborate decorations when you look back on them today, but by-george they would make us so damn excited. I mean, seriously, imagine being an 6 year old and seeing Santa’s pipe sitting on your living room end-table. You go nuts. I don’t know how many mouths that pipe has been in since, but I can tell you this – everyone of us wanted to taste the pipe that Santa smoked.
Another fun memory originates from the time before we had a fireplace. We didn’t know how Santa always got into our house, so my parents laid out Baby Talcum Powder on the front throw-rug before the front door. When we awoke, of course we found footprints going through the powder and into the living room. SANNNTTA!! He came through the door! This tradition, oddly enough, still occurred after we had the fireplace, and footprints still appeared near the door. Go figure.
These sort of surreal elaborations solidified my experiences of Christmas. It was a time of pure happiness, most of the time concocted by my parents and the people in my world. And I loved every minute of it. Hmmm, I see I went on a tangent to the original tangent – so, shoot me. What I wanted to tell you about was the story of the Elf Shoes and how they came back to bite me in the butt. As the story goes, my dad came home from work one night, later than usual. If I recall correctly, it was several nights before Christmas – and possibly even Christmas Eve. Well, he pulls up in the driveway, and he sees a Elf peeking into my and Judy’s room. (We were probably 4 and 3 years old, and yes, we shared a coed room). This was in the Broomall house, and we had a slightly sloped roof right outside of our room. He calls up to the little man in his Big Boy voice, “Hey you! What are you doing!” And the elf turns and sees my dad; his eyes widened. Of course there was snow on the ground, as there always is in any Christmas story. The elf skidded down the sloped roof and began a feeble attempt at escaping unscathed. My pops, being the athletic wonder (and talented singer) that he was – and of which we are constantly reminded, chased the Elf around the front yard until he was able to tackle him. BAM! He nailed him to the ground. With a bit of bickering between the two, my dad was finally able to work out a deal where the Elf, who was innocently checking on my sister and me (and the other kids), was to be let go in exchange for his Elf shoes. The deal was made, and a family tradition was started.
Now, any time my dad would tell the story, and he always would, he would always bring out this pair of rubber Elf shoes. And we absolutely loved it (and of course, fell for it). The shoes were about a size 12 or 13, men’s. Any elf that wore those shoes must have satisfied quite the oxymoron – for sure, he was a gigantic elf. But we, of course, did not see it that way. Our dad was the hero. He captured an Elf! One of Santa’s elves! And he managed to make a deal for a pair of Elf Shoes! As you could imagine, we would constantly walk around the house wearing the Elf shoes. We would bicker over who got to wear them, and who got to boast to their friends about them. And, as my own traumatic story goes, we would bring them in for Show and Tell at school. This is a fine practice when you are young, and your classmates buy into your story and can recount that magical night with you. But imagine retelling the tale as a 5th grader, where you, yourself, was grasping onto the stories by mere threads – hoping not to lose your grip. It was as if I did not want to disbelieve. I wanted to be engulfed into the magic of Christmas as long as possible. I loved that feeling. And I have always been stubborn. Nothing changed this particular year. I remember rehashing my dad’s amazing night to my fifth grade chums, and hearing nothing but snickers from my classmates. But did that phase me? Ha! Not one bit. My grip was just as strong as before on the threads that held together this magical world. I wouldn’t let go. I guess I was a late bloomer – but who knows, for the snickers did nothing to deter my imagination. The stories and the traditions were too deeply rooted by mom and pop. Simple mocking would not deter the beliefs.
It would take my parents informing me later that year, during Easter time and at a McDonald’s, that, in fact, there was no Santa Claus nor Easter Buddy (nor Toothfairy). The called me away from all of my siblings to inform me, a night or two before Easter, that such mystical and wonderful beings did not exist. I remember just thinking to myself… “Wow. This stinks.” But they did inform me that I would now be able to help them out, and become Santa and become the Easter Bunny; to wrap gifts and hide eggs. I guess it was an okay tradeoff, but I would still die to be that young again. Well, anyway, that’s how I lost the faith in 5th grade. That was some short tangent, huh? :-xSo this was back in the day, when everything was super-merry and super-magical, and when Santa still roamed the world in one magical night. And there I was, dressing up for the younger brothers and sisters, as that man. Well, the Santa costume back in the beginning was one of my sister’s maroon bathrobes. Simple but beautiful. Sara would smear lipstick on my cheeks for that rosy, fresh from the North Pole cheek-color, but I had no beard nor any pillows stuffed into my robe to make me fat. I did, however, and as if to make everything right, put white baby powder in my hair to make it white (well, very light gray-brown). That was the costume, and yet it was still effective enough to make my younger siblings go nuts. Sara and Monica would dress in green, and if I remember correctly, long stockings. Monica may have even brought back her patented “long-hair,” which consisted of pajama pants on her head, made into a braid of some sort. They were the elves, my elves. This was the beginning of something beautiful.
The next year, or two years later, I wanted to be more authentic – as it is customary for me to always want to achieve perfection in anything I do (even if it is an unachievable goal). I cut out a fake beard on the used, dot-matrix printer paper that Aunt Barb always brought over from her work – the one that was shaded in alternating white and green tones, usually with lines of garbled print appearing randomly. I covered the paper in glue and then scrambled for cotton balls to secure to it. I also added cotton balls to the tip of the same maroon hooded robe. I was looking fly. The beard was stiff and did not move when I talked, but it was fantastic. And it was so obviously fake, but a gluey-cotton-ball beard is better than no beard at all, right? I loved dressing as Santa, but as my brothers and sisters got older and wiser, it was harder to convince them of my authenticity (well it really wasn’t, as they were so young, but I still wanted to improve due to my own obsessions). I was always focused on improving…
I remember when I was about 11 or 12, the *only* thing I wanted for Christmas was a Santa Claus suit. And my parents (ahem… Santa) obliged. A few days before Christmas, my mom called me to her bedroom and said that they wanted to give me one of my gifts early, and then she pulled out the Santa Claus suit in a foot by foot plastic pouch. I was soooo excited! Looking back, the suit, no offense to my parents, was not the best suit in the world, but boy did it fulfill its purpose for a good number of years. The suit included a Santa hat, which actually and surprisingly fit (I have a huge head, but come on, don’t pretend you didn’t know that); it also had a felt-ish pullover top and elastic pants. It also had a cheap plastic belt and imitation boot-shafts (not full boots, just extenders to make your shoes look like boots). These ripped so easily. Lastly, the suit included a more realistic beard, which I was soooo excited about. The beard was basically stretched cotton on an elastic band. The band went around your head and hung naturally. It moved when I bellowed! You don’t know how excited I was. This suit was great, and I really loved it.
God, it felt great! To be able to slip into character, waiting outside by our enormous van (dubbed “The Fish Tank” by my friend Dave Dibello ages ago), watching my breath freeze when it came into contact with the bitter night. But cold could not stop Santa. (Geez, he’s Santa for cripe’s sake!) I remember vividly, for several years, waiting out in the cold night in my Santa suit, looking inside to see if my elves gave me the cue to come in the front door (the chimney had a fire lit, silly). The best part of it was the older children and my parents making up excuses about where Brian was while Santa came. I’ve been everywhere – at a friend’s house, asleep out in the van by mistake, at work (when I was a little bit older). None of them were very creative, but because they were somewhat believable, they worked (the degree to which it worked was inversely proportional to the age of the youngest child – obviously). This suit lasted for roughly 4 years, when I was turning 15 and getting antsy about the suit not being believable enough.
The beard started to stink as it would always go *into* your mouth and was impossible to clean. It didn’t help that I used it more than one night of the year – I used it in school plays and such for projects at Saint Denis; and as Christmas neared, I would usually, which no one knows about, put it on when I was 12 and 13 and stand at my bedroom window waving to cars that drove by. I tried to be as robotic as possible, for some reason. I think it stemmed from the Drexel Hill house that my dad used to always take us to. They were elaborately decorated, and had lots of robotic Christmas figures, one of which was a Santa Claus on the rooftop that waved. Anyway, I really loved seeing people slow down and point their kids in my direction (On more than one occasion, I also wore the costume, sans beard, hat, belt and boots, to bed because it was so warm – shhh!). So you see, my suit got worn out, and, well… It was time for another upgrade.
My Aunt Trisha had an amazing and probably expensive Santa Claus outfit that was used for the Flounders Kids’ Christmas Party every year (where an Uncle or older cousin would dress up for us and distribute gifts from godparents and, usually, a gift from our parents… which was one from the stock pile they had hidden from us. We would rent out a building that was attached to Uncle Tom’s Church (the Church was off limits, but we always found ways to sneak into it). All of the cousins would run wild throughout the building. Santa would come after we did our Christmas crafts, played games, and settled down into the room with the piano — but not until we sang several Christmas carols. These parties were the best! It’s a tradition that I hope will pick back up as more younger cousins are being born into the family).
I remember being nervous asking Aunt Trisha if I could borrow the suit because I kept thinking that it was so expensive and that she would never let me borrow it for fear that I’d ruin it. What was I thinking?! Aunt Trish is one of the nicest ladies in the world! She let me borrow it in a heartbeat. Instead of taking it in a 1 foot by 1 foot plastic pouch like my first Santa Outfit, this suit had to be stored in a trash bag. It was *that* heavy, and it was *that* good! It was a thick felt-ish suit. The beard was thick and much more realistic. It had a top to it that would cover your hair as well. The hat was awesome. It was a great suit, and it worked wonders for the two or three years that I wore it. For it after those years, that the tradition wavered and ultimately died. Chris, our youngest, was 6 when I was 16. And Mickey and Billy, the two above him, were 9 and 10. They were known as Frick and Frack, and were wild kids. (I guess when one kid hits the other on the head with an axe, they get that label, huh?).
[Psss. Another aside…] My parents, when they redid the basement many years ago, built in a “Christmas Room.” It was a room with lots of shelves that would hold all of the Christmas gifts during the shopping season. It was under strict lock and key… okay, forgive me for another tangent-inside-a-tangent. I love to be surprised. I love it, but I am impatient. So it’s hard to surprise me. Yes, this room was under lock and key, but I did know where the key was. I had restrained myself for years from peeking. But when I was 15, I wanted a color printer so badly that I would have done anything to find out if I was getting it. It was the only thing that I wanted! So, when no one was home, I took the key out of it’s “hiding spot” (which was with every other key the family had in the Medicine Cabinet) and unlocked the door to the Christmas Room. Boy was I disappointed. Not only was there a new color printer, but there was a whole new computer system in there. I RUINED what would have been the biggest surprise. Again, I haven’t told anyone this, because I was so ashamed. Christmas morning, I unwrapped my gifts, and looked in the “traditional” family gift section, and there was nothing. Maybe they were holding it for someone else and it wasn’t actually ours? Nope. One of the gifts I received was a computer cable. And as I looked at it, my dad tossed me the keys to the basement and said, “Merry Christmas!” I went down, and, knowing what was already waiting for me, tried to act very surprised. I was so excited, don’t get me wrong, but nothing beats that initial surprise… and I had ruined that one. That was the last time I blatantly peeked into the Christmas room. I like the “Holy Smokes! By Golly!” surprise feeling too much to ever do it again. Surprises are the best, and I missed out on this one…
I am too verbose; back to the story at hand. Frick and Frack didn’t know why the room was locked, or for that matter, why it was only locked around this time of the year. But a locked door to a kid is a screaming siren begging for attention. There was a secret entrance inside the Christmas room that Frick and Frack were very quick to pick up on. If you climbed under the stairway to the kitchen, there was a way to get into the Christmas room. Anthony and I knew of this passageway, but only because we, Judy, and Moira Zabel had our Poetry club under those steps (Again, that’s another story). To help my mom out, we hammered horizontal boards across the opening – and we proceeded to stop paying attention to it. Alas, a week before Christmas, we discovered that the boards had been kicked in, literally. They found their way into the Christmas room, and, as such, both discovered the true lie about Big Red. The point of this whole story? There was only one remaining believer in the house after I was 17. And that made me sad. Inside, I was torn. I was really hurt, because it felt like the night was a little less Magical. I know now, the nights simply shifted focus to being with family (which I LOVE now), but I was still all about being Santa then. It wasn’t as fun anymore, and thus I retired my suit. Anthony took over for a year, and then the tradition kind of stopped all together.
And this made me sad, I was talking to Judy while we were buying our gifts for the family about how much I missed “being” Santa Claus and about how I still wished we had little kids in the house. We agreed that it was weird to not have young ones all over the place, but we both loved how many younger cousins were being born into the family. And we both are (ridiculously) excited for the day that we have our own kids and when our siblings have their own kids. Those days will surely be around the corner sooner than we know it. I talked about how I was considering dressing as Santa and doing some Mom-and-Dad-like stunts. In particular, I mentioned getting dressed up again and appearing in the window of my two young (and close) cousins – ages 9 and 5 (ish). Kind of like the Elf my dad caught, but just enough to deliberately be caught by them, just to stoke their imaginations. Alas, the idea came as quickly as it went as I got consumed in work, Christmas parties, and shopping. All of these are important parts of the season (well I could do without the work, but I love parties and I love buying gifts that are just right).
And then Christmas morning came, 2004. (Obviously I wrote this on more than one night). I unwrapped all of my gifts, which were fantastic. (Mom and dad never fail). And then I saw a big box sitting next to the radiator in my corner near the fireplace (we have had the same assigned pile location for years). For some odd reason, I didn’t see the box until I was done wrapping all of the other gifts. But I am glad I saved it for last. I unwrap the box to see a drawing of Santa on it. It was a very nice box, but I was clueless about what it was. So I open it up, and, lo and behold, it’s one of those expensive, ornate Santa costumes!! I was so excited! Honestly, I had no clue about the gift, and I didn’t even ask for it. But here it was, and I was thrilled. I immediately put the suit on. It’s thick furry material, with a great belt and boot-extenders with fur on the top of them. The hat fits (even over the white wig and my large head!), and by george, they even include Dad-eyebrows (these are the Andy-Rooney-type eyebrows – cough, Pat Flounders, cough – that extend way past your facial frame). I was really touched and honored at the same time. And I really cannot wait to exploit the imaginations of my cousins next year.
While I did suffer from a 5 year lull in being the big guy, that doesn’t mean I am any less spirited. I still am obsessed with Christmas (as work people can attest to, or as Dr. Sprandio said, “Christmas music in July, Brian? Cut us a break!”), and I still love to make people happy by exceeding their expectations and making them a little more engulfed in the world I strive to paint. (I am just beginning to see that this gets easier as I get older, and for that I am remarkably excited). I think part of what I love so much is bringing out people’s inner child, and at Christmas, that is so easy to do. This fascination with Christmas and love and good feelings of comfort and joy all root from my earliest of childhood memories, from those family traditions that I will treasure for the rest of my life, that I will emulate in my own family when that time comes. Christmas is a time to let imaginations explode. I am blessed to be graced with such a wonderful family, and, especially, parents that make everyday, not just holidays, feel so magical and wonderful.
My childhood dreams of being Santa Claus are just one of my many many many memories of Christmas. To be honest, I could write a 1200 page book on this topic alone. And I love the fact that my mom and dad have started to make it easier for us to remember all of these happenings. In 1998, they started a new tradition of “Christmas boxes.” Each of us has our own box, and every Christmas, my parents add new items to the box (that we unwrap Christmas Eve). These can be photos, ornaments, other little Christmas trinkets; The Christmas Box will eventually be ours to take into our own homes when we get married so we have a leg up on decorations (and to remember all of the great years). Each year, several pages are also added to a book in each of our boxes that describes what happened for the past year and explains each of the items we were given that year (of course, each has its own meaning). They also include the typical sparkly cards that have become mom’s trademark. Mom and dad try so hard to make our Christmases as special as possible, and, even as we get older and traditions morph, they always succeed with flying colors. And for that, I am without words, in deep admiration.
“For all these things and more, that’s what Christmas means to me my love.”
We ate something quickly at her house (she force-fed me Vegetarian “Chicken” Nuggets which weren’t horrible, but weren’t chicken either – silly vegetarians). We came up with this: Ben had a big Banquet coming up that night (of which Lauren and I were also conveniently – and delinquently – a part). It was the perfect opportunity to do something. But what? Lauren and I drove to my house, found the only picture I had of Ben – a crappy yearbook picture, grabbed a photograph of a woman swimsuit model off the Internet (tasteful as it was going to be presented to him by teachers), and very roughly (and poorly) Photoshopped his head to her body. We printed it out with a slogan “Got Shababo?” and ran to the local Bakery. We ordered the cake with icing-text of “Congratulations on the Sex Change, Benita”. The bakers thought we were nuts, and they held back obvious laughs. We brought the cake out for desert and we all sung “Happy Sex Change to You” and “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” in front of all of the parents, faculty, etc. It was classic, and the look on his face was priceless.
Rough Edit: Holiday Pains
