December 1, 2023
Just Saying…
Santa is real – Important Memories from a Small Town Christmas
By Q.C. Jones
Yesterday, while cleaning out my basement, I came face-to-face with a plastic tote full of Christmas decorations. In amongst the mishmash of frayed wires, and fragments of broken oraments, I spied an ancient Santa. He caught my eye and captured my imagination.
To be clear, Santa, while magical in many ways, hadn’t shrunk himself down to four inches and sat quietly in a plastic tub in the basement for months on end. He’s too busy. Instead, the Santa I refer to is a small decorative statue. He, the decoration, has been part of my life for years; appearing periodically for a few weeks at Grandma’s house every December. I can’t remember my very first recollection of this Santa, but it had to be in my very early years. My best guess is around age five.
Pushing further into my memory, I recall Santa’s first appearance on one of the windows of Grandma’s alteration shop. I remember one of her professional interactions with Santa quite well. That day Santa rushed to her shop for a quick fix on his fur-trimmed pants (which I have chronicled in other stories). Could it be the figurine had been given to her by the real and jolliest of elves – Santa Claus? There is something very powerful about this tiny bit of cloth and plastic.
The encounter led me to a long-forgotten Christmas memory; a cherished bit of growing up in small town America. These events took place in Central Illinois, but they mirror the experiences of millions who once called a small town home. Allow me to recant an episode which occurred over a span of a single day, 60-plus years ago.
It was an exciting Friday in mid-December. My dad’s birthday fell on December 12th, which was commemorated with cake, ice cream, a chorus of Happy Birthday, followed by the setting up of the Christmas Tree. The Holiday Season for our little family was fully launched.
I woke up with Happy Birthday echoing in one ear and Jingle Bells playing in the other. I threw on my clothes and did a cursory job of applying what the popular radio jingle referred to as “a little dab of (my dad’s) Brylcreem” to my hair. After a blob of oatmeal for breakfast, I marched off on my treck to school. I had spring in my step because that day marked the first of several school Christmas programs.
My route involved the town square. Approaching the square, I could hear Christmas songs echoing off the sides of the building. The combination of chilly air, Christmas decorations hanging from every building, and the hustle bustle of everyone making their way to work gave Nat King Cole’s Chestnuts Roasting a supernatural feel.
Fast forward half a day, what we covered in class has long been forgotten. But I remember the school as decorated in green and red construction paper chains and snowflakes made from old tin cans. All the kids were distracted by the ghost of holiday’s almost present.
Soon after lunch we were called to an assembly. Educational standards of those days required much line forming; lunch, recess, atomic bombs, tornados, you name it, lines were formed. Once in “formation” the teacher shepherded their class to the destination. So, my second-grade class stood in the hallway in a line waiting our turn while other classes maneuvered to the assembly hall destination. Then something happened.
As one of the fourth-grade classes passed by our line, Ricky, an older and more worldly friend stopped long enough to whisper in my ear. I recall his words precisely. “There is no Santa. Just ask anyone older.” The other fourth graders sneered and snickered as they marched by.
Shocked? Dismayed? Troubled? How could this be? My mind raced. I spent the rest of the afternoon worrying and wondering.
Even at the tender age of seven, your Pal QC Jones had the mind of an investigative journalist. In the closing moments of school, I devised a plan. I would personally get to the bottom of this Santa thing.
The final bell rang. I raced the block and a half to the little red house where Mister Claus held court each day. Behind a large tree, I stood in the cold gray light of afternoon waiting for Santa to appear. Like clockwork, the Courthouse Tower chimed four times and he showed up. He was plump, jolly, and bearded. I crept closer to further check things out. He saw me. Addressing me by name, Santa said, “QC, you look like you just saw a ghost.” Holy Reindeer droppings, I was discovered.
Polite but direct, I asked straight up, “Mr. Claus, are you real.” He laughed like a bowl full of jelly and replied, “Do I look real to you? Don’t believe everything you hear.” and told me to be prepared for a great Christmas.
Case dismissed; Ricky was as “full of it” as a Christmas Goose. Every now and again someone revives Ricky’s conspiracy. But Santa and I know. Ricky’s on the Naughty List. Just Saying, QC Jones.
