Christmas memories
People often ask me “What’s your favorite role ever?”
I never hesitate in responding.
Santa Claus.
For nearly two decades, I would drive cross country at Thanksgiving, leaving the City of Angels behind to join my family for the holidays. No matter what kind of year I had endured, good or bad, I liked the fact that I had the opportunity to return to spend time with my folks, my children and my grandchildren.
The job of Santa Claus made that possible. But even more, it was reason enough in its own right. The job paid well enough, but even more was the reward that no amount of money could ever replace.
Living and working in the tinsel town dream factories, it was easy to grow jaded about the way illusions are created. You look behind the magic for the method of creating the illusions. Plus, as an actor, you work for the accomplishment of good work done and the feedback of your audience. However, the only audience you get are either on set, where they have their own issues, or in the audience that you must ignore for the most part to create the performance.
So, the opportunity to interact with your audience, close-up and personal, is a unique experience. Especially when that audience is usually under seven years of age. When you put on “The Suit,” get into the beard and sneak down the steps from the dressing room - where the “reindeer” are being fed - and you see your first three year old trying to reach the Santa mailbox to post her letter … and the look on her face when you go to help her … you then realize that there is still magic in the world.
It was always a challenge not to shed a tear when the face of the first child lit up. The sheer look of joy, the purity of that look, wiped away all the cares of the day and the year. And the quiet conversations we had, just the two of us, while Mommy took a picture was worth more to me than the remuneration.
Cannon Village was the little town where I portrayed the most beloved figure of the season. It looked a lot like Bedford Falls, the town in “A Wonderful Life.” The tree lined median with large Oaks were festooned with twinkling lights. The brick sidewalks crowded with shoppers from all over the East Coast, the Christmas music playing over hidden speakers … it seemed a magical place.
At either end of the street were the large brick buildings that housed the textile factories where generations had toiled making Cannon Towels and sheets. I had spent my youth in a small textile town, so I knew the territory.
I had negotiated one thing into my contract. There would never be a staff photographer shooting pictures for sale to the families. I knew how tight budgets were in low paying factory towns. I wanted to be assured that any child would have the right to have a picture with Santa … so long as Mommy had a camera. Santa is a universal symbol of love in my mind. That should never have a price tag applied to it.
I also never uttered the adult concept that Santa was a “Ho Ho Ho” kind of guy. I was never a Santa for adults. I was a child’s Santa. It was a personal experience for the child as well as for me. I always spoke quietly with the child. I didn’t jump into the “What do you want for Christmas” routine.
I asked how they were and what was going on in their world. When I inquired about their behavior, I might remind them of that “Thursday in September” when they were a little less than perfect. I usually got an interesting response with that.
Kids had many predictable responses to what they wanted. If there was … and frequently there was … a “Hot Toy” of the year, they’d want it. I would respond, knowing that those toys were often priced out of their parent’s budgets, that “we only have a few left. So, it’s going to be a contest to see who can be the very best behaved between now and Christmas Eve.” If you don’t make the cut this year, I’ll put you high on the list for next year.
But the toys weren’t the biggest issues I faced. It was when the child asked “Please, find my Daddy a job” ... or “Pease, make my Daddy stop drinking.” Those became the most difficult to handle.
When I began, the mills were still running three shifts to keep up with demand. By the middle point of my tenure, the mills were gone. They had been cutting back shifts for a couple of years. That’s when those wishes began in earnest.
The last year that they were open, I thought seriously about not doing the job. But then I thought, “No. This is the year they’ll really Need a Santa Claus.” We collected toys and bicycles and everything we could to offset the immovable consequences of the shutdown on the community. It wasn’t enough, of course, but we did try.
The following year, the machines were sold to China and the buildings were torn down. With the buildings also went the last hopes of the people of the town. The “Potters” had won the battle. For the moment.
A couple of years later, David Murdoch announced plans to build a food research center in the town. The construction jobs would help, but the people of the town didn’t have PhD degrees in food science.
The children I saw after that were not the same as the children I’d seen when I began. Gone were the little textile families. To where, I didn’t know.
Poverty breeds a purity of spirit that was gone when the privileged classes moved in. I had little problem giving up the reindeer after that. Most of my memories of that time are happy ones. But the ones that stick with you are the other ones.
The one that sticks out most in my mind?
A little girl from Pennsylvania whose family was traveling north from Florida. They always stopped there to shop in the little Village. They were well off financially, but life had given them a hard stroke of luck.
The little girl had MS. Yet her smile was brighter than most and her excitement was not to be contained. She had brought a page from a Spiegel catalog describing a life-sized doll made to look just like her. I glanced at her parents who gave me a nod and promised her that she would have that doll for Christmas. She gave me a big hug and a kiss and promised to leave milk and cookies.
She struggled walking away but she had a huge smile on her face as she turned back to wave. I still have a tear in my eye when I remember her. I looked for her every year thereafter. She never returned. I didn’t really expect her to. But I guess I was holding out hope for the Christmas miracle.
