Some days being a fat guy with a white beard entails a lot of responsibility. Chief among them is Christmas of course. There are others (think green elfenwear on St. Patrick’s Day,) but mercifully most grow out of the expectations of individuals rather than society in general.I had avoided all these associations since having been Santa at a school where my first wife taught. In the aftermath of that performance, still recounted at staff holiday parties after several cups of punch, I shaved the beard, opting for a less analogous moustache for a few years.
Now that I have grandchildren, I have relaxed my “no Santa comparisons” rule and have sometimes gone as far as wearing the traditional fur trimmed red stocking cap. This year, more by coincidence than design, I also wore a bright red chamois shirt that implied more than it stated.
It is our tradition to spend Christmas Eve with my stepdaughter Nikki’s family. This involves a seventy-mile drive and this year, a stop or two along the way. The first of these was the post office in Jonesville to get stamps and mail some bills I had made out in the morning.
As I approached the post office, I noticed a man holding the door open. In a halting German accent and a broad grin, he said. “After you, Herr Santa.” He gave a deep, formal bow as I strode past. At the counter, I asked for stamps and received the holiday version without the usual display of choices. I took this as a plus, more out of distaste for the rote sales pitch for the others than a preference for the “festive” holiday stamps.
Later, in the Grand Union where we had stopped for Christmas Eve snacks I walked by a little girl who struggled in her mother’s arms. She looked at me with interest but continued to struggle and protest that she wanted to get down. As she squirmed and looked over mother’s shoulder, I looked at her sternly and mouthed the words, “I know!” Understanding crossed her face and she settled against her mother’s chest, sucking her thumb and stifling a tear. (This does not work as well with my Grandchildren who, after all, know me.)
Finally, we went to Nikki’s house. Mike’s family, (son-in-law,) had a dinner so Renee and I were on babysitting duty which usually involves Renee and the kids going to bed. Santa, on the other hand foraged up a bottle of wine and watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” trying not to think of the other Bert and Ernie.
After a couple of glasses the wine ran out. I decided a Santa, however jolly, that consumed the family wine rather than milk and cookies, (which, incidentally, I also ate,) might not be the best role model and went out for more.
Finding wine at 9:00 P.M. on Christmas Eve is not easy. Grand Union – closed, P&C – closed, you get the picture. Mercifully, there is always the Midway Mobil Convenience Store and Truck Stop. Harsh florescent light bathed the entire parking lot, revealing every irregularity in the pavement, spill and puddle of indeterminate origin within its reach. I parked and entered the store, as artfully lit as the surrounding property.
Two aging and round faced cherubs stood behind the counter in matching green Dickies uniforms. They smiled and the man greeted me with a rousing “Santa, good to see you tonight.” The woman beside him also smiled and greeted me in a way that I found disturbingly familiar but maybe I was becoming self-important with all the special treatment. Just inside there was a wine rack and I looked for the brand that Santa had polished off along with his milk and cookies. Seeing none, I settled on a Robert Mondavi “Special Reserve” Pinot Noir. I grabbed two bottles, one to replace the bottle I’d consumed and one for punitive damages.
I placed the wine on the counter by the cash register and pulled out my wallet to pay. Cherub one, the male, said “Whoa Santa – Long night huh?”
“Yes,” I answered, “and cold. Ho Ho Ho.”
