A CHRISTMAS STORY
a true story
by Jay Frankston
There's nothing so beautiful
as a child's dream of Santa Claus.
I know, I often had that dream.
But I was Jewish and we didn't celebrate
Christmas.
It was everyone else's holiday and
I felt left out . . .
like a big party I wasn't invited
to.
It wasn't the toys I missed,
it was Santa Claus and a Christmas
tree.
So when I got married and had kids
I decided to make up for it.
I started with a seven-foot tree,
all decked out with lights and tinsel,
and a Star of David on top to soothe
those
whose Jewish feelings were frayed
by the display
and, for them, it was a Hanukah
bush.
And it warmed my heart to see the
glitter,
because now the party was at my
house
and everyone was invited.
But something was missing,
something big and round and jolly,
with jingle bells and a ho! ho!
ho!
So I bought a bolt of bright red
cloth
and strips of white fur and my wife
made me a costume.
Inflatable pillows rounded out my
skinny frame,
but no amount of makeup
could turn my face into merry old
Santa.
I went around looking at department
store impersonations
sitting on their thrones with children
on their laps
and flash-bulbs going off,
and I wasn't satisfied with the
way they looked either.
After much effort I located a mask
maker
and he had just the thing for me,
a rubberized Santa mask,
complete with whiskers and flowing
white hair.
It was not the real thing but it
looked genuine enough
to live up to a child's dream of
St. Nick.
When I tried it on something happened.
I looked in the mirror and there
he was, big as life,
the Santa of my childhood.
There he was . . . and it was me.
I felt like Santa, like I became
Santa.
My posture changed.
I leaned back and pushed out my
false stomach.
My head tilted to the side
and my voice got deeper and richer
and
a 'MERRYCHRISTMAS, EVERYONE'
For two years I played Santa for
my children
to their mixed feelings of fright
and delight
and to my total enjoyment.
And when the third year rolled around,
the Santa in me had grown into a
personality of his own
and he needed more room than I had
given him.
So I sought to accommodate him
by letting him do his thing for
other children.
I called up orphanages and children's
hospitals
and offered his services free.
But, 'We don't need Santa,
we have all sorts of donations from
foundations and . . .
thank you for calling.
And the Santa in me felt lonely
and useless.
Then, one late November afternoon,
I went to the mailbox on the corner
of the street
to mail a letter and saw this pretty
little girl
trying to reach for the slot.
She was maybe six years old.
'Mommy, are you sure Santa will
get my letter?
she asked.
'Well, you addressed it to Santa
Claus, North Pole,
so he should get it,' the mother
said
and lifted her little girl
so she could stuff the letter into
the box.
My mind began to whirl.
All those thousands of children
who wrote to Santa Claus at Christmas
time,
whatever became of their letters?
One phone call to the main post
office answered my question.
They told me that, as of the last
week of November,
an entire floor of the post office
was needed to store
those letters in huge sacks that
came
from different sections of the city.
The Santa in me went ho! ho! ho!
and we headed down to the post office.
And there they were, thousands upon
thousands of letters,
with or without stamps, addressed
to Santi Claus,
or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle,
scribbled on wrapping paper
or neatly written on pretty stationary.
And I rummaged through them and
laughed.
Most of them were gimme, gimme,
gimme letters,
like 'I want a pair of roller skates,
and a Nintendo,
and a GI Joe, and a personal computer,
and a small portable TV,
and whatever else you can think
of.
Many of them had the price alongside
each item . .
with or without sales tax.
Then there were the funny ones like:
'Dear Santa, I've been a good boy
all of last year,
but if I don't get what I want,
I'll be a bad boy all of next'
And I became a little flustered
at the demands
and the greed of so many spoiled
children.
But the Santa in me heard a voice
from inside the mail sack
and I continued going through the
letters,
one after the other,
until I came upon one which jarred
and unsettled me.
It was neatly written on plain white
paper
and it said: 'Dear Santa, I hope
you get my letter.
I am eleven years old
and I have two little brothers and
a baby sister.
My father died last year and my
mother is sick.
I know there are many who are poorer
than we are
and I want nothing for myself,
but could you send us a blanket,
cause mommy's cold at night'
It was signed Suzy.
And a chill went up my spine and
the Santa in me cried,
'I hear you Suzy, I hear you'
And I dug deeper into those sacks
and came up with another eight such
letters,
all of them calling out from the
depth of poverty.
I took them with me and went straight
to the nearest Western Union office
and sent each child a telegram:
'GOT YOUR LETTER.
WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS
DAY.
WAIT FOR ME. SANTA'
I knew I could not possibly fill
the need
of all those children
and it wasn't my purpose to do so.
But if I could bring them hope.
If I could make them feel that their
cries did not go unheard
and that someone out there was listening
. . .
So I budgeted a sum of money
and went out and bought toys.
I wasn't content with the five-and-ten
cent variety.
I wanted something substantial,
something these children could only
dream of,
like an electric train, or a microscope,
or a huge doll of the kind they
saw advertised on TV.
And on Christmas Day I took out
my sleigh
and let Santa do his thing.
Well, it wasn't exactly a sleigh,
it was a car and my wife drove me
around
because with all those pillows and
toys
I barely managed to get in the back
seat.
It had graciously snowed the night
before and
the streets were thick with fresh
powder.
My first call took me to the outskirts
of the city.
The letter had been from a Peter
Barsky
and all it said was:
'Dear Santa, I am ten years old
and I am an only child.
We've just moved to this house a
few months ago
and I have no friends yet.
I'm not sad because I'm poor but
because I'm lonely.
I know you have many things to do
and people to see
and you probably have no time for
me.
So I don't ask you to come to my
house or bring anything.
But could you send me a letter so
I know you exist'
My telegram read:
'DEAR PETER,
NOT ONLY DO I EXIST
BUT I'LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY.
WAIT FOR ME.
SANTA'
We spotted the house and drove past
it
and parked around the corner.
Then Santa got out with his big
bag of toys
slung over his shoulder and tramped
through the snow.
The house was wedged in between
two tall buildings.
The roof was of corrugated metal
and it was more of a shack than
a house.
I walked through the gate,
up the front steps and rang the
bell.
A man opened the door.
He was in his undershirt and his
stomach bulged out of his pants.
'Boje moy' he exclaimed in astonishment.
That's Polish, by the way, and his
hand went to his face.
'P-p-please . . .' he stuttered,
'p-please . . .
de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass
. . .church.
I go get him. Please, please
wait.'
And he threw a coat over his bare
shoulders and,
assured that I would wait, he ran
down the street in the snow.
So I stood in front of the house
feeling good,
and on the opposite side of the
street was this other shack,
and through the window
I could see these shiny little black
faces peering at me and waving.
Then the door opened shyly and some
voices called out to me
'Hya Santa' . . . 'Hya Santa'
And I ho! ho! hoed my way over there
and this woman asked if I would
come in and I did.
And there were these five young
kids from one to seven years old.
And I sat and spoke to them of Santa
and the spirit of love which is
the spirit of Christmas.
Then, since they were not on my
list,
but assuming from the torn Christmas
wrappings
that they had gotten their presents,
I asked if they liked what Santa
had brought them during the night.
And each in turn thanked me for
. . . the woolen socks,
and the sweater, and the warm new
underwear.
And I looked at them and asked:
'Didn't I bring you kids any toys?
And they shook their heads sadly.
'Ho! ho! ho! I slipped up,'
I said 'We'll have to fix that'
I told them to wait, I'd be back
in a few minutes,
then trudged heavily through the
snow to the corner.
And when I was out of their sight,
I ran as fast as I could to the car.
We had extra toys in the trunk and
my wife quickly filled up the bag,
and I trodded back to the house
and gave each child a brand new toy.
There was joy and laughter
and the woman asked
if she could take a picture of Santa
with the kids
and I said, sure, why not?
And when Santa got ready to leave,
I noticed that this five-year old
little girl was crying.
She was as cute as a button.
I bent down and asked her 'What's
the matter, child?'
And she sobbed, 'Oh! Santa, I'm
so happy'
And the tears rolled from my eyes
under the rubber mask.
As I stepped out on the street,
'Pan, pan,proche . . . please come
. . . come,'
I heard this man Barsky across the
way.
And Santa crossed and walked into
the house.
The boy Peter just stood there and
looked at me.
'You came,' he said. 'I wrote and
. . . you came'.
He turned to his parents.
'I wrote . . . and he came'
And he repeated it over and over
again.
'I wrote . . . and he came.'
And when he recovered,
I spoke with him about loneliness
and friendship,
and gave him a chemistry set,
which seemed to be what he would
go for,
and a basketball.
And he thanked me profusely.
And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking
woman,
asked something of her husband in
Polish.
My parents were Polish so I speak
a little and understand a lot.
'From the North Pole,' I said in
Polish.
She looked at me in astonishment.
'You speak Polish? she asked.
'Of course,' I said. 'Santa speaks
all languages'
And I left them in joy and wonder.
And I did this for twelve years,
going through the letters to Santa
at the post office,
listening for the cries of children
muffled in unopened envelopes.
In time I learned all that Santa
has to know to handle any situation.
Like the big kid who would stop
Santa on the street and ask:
'Hey, Santa, where's your sleigh?'
And I'd say, 'How old are you son?
And he'd say, 'Thirteen.
And I'd say, 'Well, you're a big
fellow and you ought to know better.
Santa used to come in a sleigh many
years ago,
but these are modern times.
I come in a car now'
And I'd hop in the back seat and
my wife would drive off.
Or the kid who would look at me
closely and come out with,
'That's a mask, pointing a finger.
And you never lie to children so
I'd say, 'Sure, son, of course.
If everybody knew what Santa really
looks like
they'd bother me all year long
and I couldn't get my things ready
for Christmas.
Or the mother who would whisper
so her young son couldn't hear,
'Where do you come from?
I'd turn to the child and say,
'Your mom wants to know where I
come from Willy
And he'd say, 'From the North Pole,
Mommy,' with absolute certainty.
And she'd nudge me and whisper,
'You don't understand. Who sent
you?
I mean, how do you come to this
house?
I¹d turn to the boy and say,
Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know
why I came to see you.
And he'd say, 'Cause I wrote him
a letter, Mommy.
And I'd pull out the letter and
she knows she mailed it,
and shes confused and bewildered
and I'd leave her like that.
As time went on,
the word got out about Santa Claus
and me,
and I insisted on anonymity,
but toy manufacturers would send
me huge cartons of toys
as a contribution to the Christmas
spirit.
So I started with 18 or 20 children
and wound up with 120,
door to door, from one end of the
city to the other,
from Christmas Eve through Christmas
Day.
And on my last call, a number of
years ago,
I knew there were four children
in the family and I came prepared.
The house was small and sparsely
furnished.
The kids had been waiting all day,
staring at the telegram
and repeating to their skeptical
mother,
He'll come, Mommy, he'll come.
And as I rang the door bell the
house lit up with joy and laughter
and He's here ... he's here!
And the door swings open and they
all reach for my hands and hold on.
Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa. We
just knew you'd come.
And these poor kids are all beaming
with happiness.
And I take each one of them on my
lap
and speak to them of rainbows and
snowflakes,
and tell them stories of hope and
waiting,
and give them each a toy.
And all the while there's this fifth
child standing in the corner,
a cute little girl with blond hair
and blue eyes.
And when I'm through with the others,
I turn to her and say:
You're not part of this family are
you?
And she shakes her head sadly and
whispers, No.
Come closer, child, I say, and she
comes a little closer.
What's your name? I ask.
Lisa. How old are you? Seven.
Come, sit on my lap,
and she hesitates but she comes
over
and I lift her up and sit her on
my lap.
Did you get any toys for Christmas?
I ask.
No, she says with puckered lips.
So I take out this big beautiful
doll and,
Here, do you want this doll? No,
she says.
And she leans over to me and whispers
in my ear,
I'm Jewish.
And I nudge her and whisper in her
ear,
I'm Jewish too.
Do you want this doll?
And she's grinning from ear to ear
and nods with wanting and desire,
and takes the doll and hugs it and
runs out.
It's been a long time since I last
put on my Santa suit.
But I feel that Santa has lived
with me
and given me a great deal of happiness
all those years.
And now, when Christmas rolls around,
he comes out of hiding long enough
to say,
'Ho! Ho! Ho!
A Merry Christmas to You, my friend'
And I say to You now,
MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIENDS!
'A Christmas Story' is published
by the author
and is available in hard cover for
Price on request
from WHOLE LOAF PUBLICATIONS
41201 Airport Road, Little River,
Ca. 95456
(707) 937-0208
e-mail wlp@mcn.org
web site at: http://www.mcn.org/a/wlp/christmas/
