Tired from aimlessly walking around the Eastwood mall, I sat by the door with my daughter while waiting for Butch to pick me up. Who would drop by in front of me but this friendly Santa Claus who then chirped “Hello” with a gleaming smile. I smiled back at him and asked for a photo. Snap…
Santa Claus is so much a part of my childhood memories. Feeling like a kid, I wanted so much to have a photo shoot with Santa Claus again. My overweight dad was often chosen to wear Santa Claus costume during children’s parties. I was five years old when I first caught daddy playing Santa Claus in parties. He was dressed all in red and white fur, from his head to his foot. A bundle of toys flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. As he handed me a gift, I saw his wedding ring and my eyes beamed “Daddy is Santa Claus”. He pretended not to hear me but I knew. For some reason, I still believed in Santa Claus.
I stopped believing Santa Claus was real by the age of seven. It was my sister Lorna who told me that she caught dad placing gifts by the bed. For some reason, I was not disappointed. In my child’s mind, daddy is the real Santa Claus.
It’s always good for us to pause
And think awhile of Santa Claus–
That jolly symbol we revere
When we approach the changing year.
Behind his beard so long and white,
In which our children take delight,
There beats a heart from color free
Which bids all children “come to me.”
MARSHALL M. MORGAN, “The Spirit of Santa Claus