I had believed in Santa Claus dropping into my Brooklyn apartment until the 4th grade, awfully late for kids back then. I remember when I found out he wasn’t real — from my Spanish teacher in class who glibly stated “we all know boys and girls — Santa Claus isn’t real.” Half of the kids laughed, but the other half, like me, were confused. When I told my mother about it, as usual, she stormed down to the school, which was a block away from my house, and offered my Spanish teacher some words of advice.
As an adult, it’s easy to disconnect oneself from magical things and ideas. Some parents never lie to their kids about Santa Claus in order to ground them and I am sure there is something to that, long term. However, I can tell you from experience and from the testaments of my children, who all believed in Santa Claus until middle school, that having that moment in time where things appear to be magical and special — believing in Santa Claus is just about the best thing a child could experience growing up.
One of the ways my mother got me to really believe was recounted by a story told by my grandfather. Sometime back in the 1950s, in the middle of the night, my grandfather woke up my mother and said “quick come to the window — Santa Claus just left.” My mother dashed to the window and rubbed the sand out of her eyes and eagerly gazed up into the snowy skies and swore she saw Santa on his sled. She told me this story and I told the same story to my kids and I am sure they’ll tell their kids.
Each night before Christmas my wife and I would leave presents near the tree from Santa. Learning from the penmanship mistakes of my mother (I always was curious why Santa had the same penmanship as my mother), we’d leave presents without labels knowing it was exactly what each child wanted. They instantly knew which present was theirs and receiving that gift from Santa only elevated the gratitude they exhibited. After receiving their presents, they’d run to see what happened to the carrots and cookies and milk they left for Santa and his reindeers and would laugh when all of the milk and cookies were gone, leaving just crumbs on the plate, and half the carrot was gnawed into (I was the designated carrot and cookie and milk consumer).
We’d get the present ideas to give to them from Santa by taking them to the mall to see one of Santa’s helpers. Whatever they asked Mall Santa for we bought it for them. When I was young growing up with my sister, my mother would do the same thing: take us to the mall and have us ask Santa for stuff. The only difference between my Santa and my kids’ Santa was my Santa didn’t get me what I wanted, but what my single mother could afford. My wife spoiled our kids rotten — but I am sure they don’t see it that way since being spoiled is on a spectrum these days.
Santa usually got me some generic stuffed animal and maybe some second rate toy. I do recall being disappointed in the quality of Santa’s toys, but also recall thinking “perhaps that’s how things are made up in the North Pole.”
Christmas Eve was always celebrated at my grandparents house. My grandfather would decorate his two bedroom apartment the very best he could, with paper decals covering the walls, in all rooms. He’d frame all of the windows of his 6th story apartment with those big colorful bulbs from the 80s and make a seafood feast, consisting of mussels, crabs, lobster, and shrimp. He’d also make anti-pasta for me and my sister and lots of pasta fra diavolo. I wasn’t fond of seafood back then and ate sparingly. I’d make struffolis with him with the pizza dough we’d buy the day before from the local pizzeria, which were these little dough balls draped in honey and sprinkles, infused with anisette. They were my favorite. On Christmas Day, which was also my grandmother’s birthday, we’d have a large feast served before 3pm (Italian dinner time) consisting of manicotti, sometimes lasagna, with a red sauce filled with sausages and beef neckbones. My grandfather would wake up at 5am, drink his Sanka coffee with toast and butter, sometimes and grapefruit, and begin cooking his sauce at 6am.
Those were the very best of times.
Merry Christmas and thank you for indulging me by reading my memories.
Santa Fly
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