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First Posted: 11/25/2013
Be careful what you wish for. I always wanted to be Santa Claus. But when I got the chance, it left me emotionally drained and physically ill. I’m guesstimating it was Christmas of 1986 or ‘87. I base that on my daughter. Greta, who’s now 30, accompanied me dressed as an elf. I’d say she was three or four because she was old enough to help hand out presents but young enough to fully believe we were summoned by Santa himself to fill in at a children’s party.
Greta recalls every detail of the outfit she wore — the elf hat, the bright green dress, the white apron. The children’s party — the one that took its toll on me — was actually my second appearance as Santa. The first was a few days earlier at the annual Salvation Army Advisory Board Christmas dinner. That one went beautifully. I should have quit while I was ahead.
I’d joined the Salvation Army board — fell in love with it is a better description — a couple of years before. Thomas R. Davis, at the time owner of the hardware store next door to the Army citadel on Luzerne Ave. in West Pittston, invited me to a meeting and I was hooked. Nothing appeals to me more than humility, and this was a humble bunch.
The job of the advisory board, I learned, is to raise money and the job of Majors Ruth Pryce and Bertha Harris, commanding officers in those days, was to give it away. And, man, could these two ladies give it away. They gave it away faster than the board could raise it. The task was daunting, but the need was great, and I desperately wanted to be part of it.
The day before the dinner — at the Moose Club for $6 per person — Ruth asked if I could do her a favor. She said she and Bertha had made gifts for the board and she wanted Santa to pass them out. Their regular guy was sick, though, and she wanted to know if I would take his place. It didn’t seem to matter that I weighed all of 160 pounds.
Ruth did not have to ask twice. I couldn’t wait to tell Greta that Santa needed daddy’s help. On Ruth’s signal at the dinner, I excused myself and went to the men’s room where I donned the white beard and red suit she had strategically hid there earlier in the day. I burst into the room jingle belling and ho-ho-ho-ing for all I was worth. What a blast.
So pleased was Ruth that she asked if I’d consider an encore the next Sunday at the children’s party, and so full of myself was I that I agreed.
This time I got Greta into the act. She helped stuff me up with pillows and, with her by my side, away we went. The ride to the party was the best part. Nothing beats the look on a kid’s face when he sees Santa behind the wheel of a car. Greta could not have been more proud if I were President of the United States.
As I said, that was the best part. At the party, as one little tyke after another sat on my knee and rattled off a long list of wishes and Greta then handed each a wrapped up coloring book or box of crayons or whatever the majors were able to purchase from their meager funds, it weighed heavy on me that there is nothing worse than a powerless Santa, a skinny guy in a fake beard who could not make a single wish come true.
Naughty or nice, what did it matter? This Santa was a fraud.
I took the hat and beard off for the ride home, not wanting any more kids to see me. The next day I woke up with the flu.
I worked at the Dispatch full-time back then and had to call in sick, telling my friend Kenny Feeney, our photographer, the whole sad story, pointing out a particular little girl who asked me for a bike that I was certain she wasn’t going to get.
Kenny called me later. He wanted to know if I knew the little girl’s name and where she lived. I didn’t, I said. Perhaps the majors would. But why? “Because I’m about to buy her a bike,” he said. “That’s why.”
The next day was Christmas Eve. While I lay sick in bed, Kenny did find out the little girl’s name and address. And he did buy a bike, a pink one, and he put it together in the Dispatch pressroom and delivered right to her door.
Several dozen kids sat on my knee at that party and very few of them, I believe, got the gifts they asked for. But one did. And that must mean something.
The next time I play Santa, however, will be after I’ve won millions of dollars in the lottery. I’d still like to have Greta at my side, but this time I want her to have a laptop open, typing in names, addresses, and every single item every kid asks for. Michael will be there, too, this time. We’ll need all the help we can get. I’ll alert UPS that they are going to be mighty busy that Christmas.
In the meantime, the best I can do is man a Salvation Army red kettle, which I’ll be doing this coming Saturday morning, Dec. 7, at K-Mart at Pittston Plaza. The distinguished Jay Delaney will be with me. Jay’s, as always, surely will be dressed to the nines. Me? I’m thinking about wearing my Santa hat … for old times’ sake.