The Sunday Memory Drawer - Santa Claus Is Dead

I'm binge watching the wonderful "St. Elsewhere" on Hulu.   A recent Christmas episode was entitled "Santa Claus Is Dead."   In this story, Santa comes to visit the children's ward  and drops dead from a heart attack in front of some young on-lookers.   Don't worry.   There was a happy ending to the hour.   And I suppose Santa eventually "dies" for every tot at some point.  I'll tell you how he bit the dust for yours truly.

Of course, every Thanksgiving, the Christmas holiday jump starts with the arrival of Santa Claus at the end of the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.  Traditionally, several days later, there is a similar parade down Hollywood Boulevard.  The Santa Claus Lane parade.  And it, too, concludes, with the arrival of Santa Claus.

I would watch these telecasts in my teenage years and wonder how a young child could reconcile it all.  Santa Claus jumping from New York to Los Angeles in a matter of days.  Does he use the sleigh on all the days when he is not delivering presents?  Is this overtime for the reindeers?  Have Donner and Blitzen started to sqawk and complain to their union?

And, most importantly, how come the Macy's Santa Claus looks nothing like the Hollywood St. Nick?  Huh???

Well, at this point, my logic has prevailed.  But I am perplexed how a little, starry-eyed boy could maintain his belief in Santa amidst all the evidence that clearly shows he doesn't.

Such a quandry for parents.  How long can you keep the magic going?

Well, my folks did the best they could do.  And I was as gullible as they come.

Back when I was still believing in St. Nick, I fussed enormously over his arrival at 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon. Actually, I was probably a five-year-old obsessive compulsive about Santa's entrance every Christmas Eve.

I didn't last long as a believer. I probably wasn't more than seven years old when the kid up the block, that dastardly Monte, killed it all for me when he relayed that all my Christmas presents from Santa were being hid in his house. But, until that fateful message, I bought into all the myths. The rooftop sleigh. Rudolph. The slide down the chimney.

Except, as I worried, we didn't have a chimney. Well, not one that was open. There was a pseudo-fireplace in our house downstairs in my grandmother's dining room. But, it was cemented shut and probably hadn't been used since Eleanor Roosevelt had straight teeth.

"How is Santa Claus going to come into our house?"

The answer confused me.

"He has a key."

Huh? If I had started to think about this implausibility, I would have stopped believing right then and there.

"So he knows that our fireplace is closed?"

The answer addled me some more.

"We tell him ahead of time."

Huh?? So, there are conversations with the man prior to the visit. When does this happen? And, if there has been a previous dialogue with Santa, how come the guy doesn't know to rinse out the glass after he downs the milk and cookies? Because, frankly, at our house, nothing freaked out my mother more than a dirty glass left to linger in the sink.

If there were personal meetings going on with Santa Claus, I wanted to be in on the action. In my small kindergarten-y mind, I deduced that, with this front door key, Santa Claus would have to go up the narrow staircase to where our tree was. And a great way to do that would be to block the stairs.

Sometime, in the darkness of Christmas Eve, I pulled Zippy the Chimp and went to sit on the staircase. Nobody was going to get past me. I was going to be the sentry of our house and meet the guy with my own eyes.

And that's where they found me asleep in the morning.

Huh?

Up in the kitchen, there was a dirty glass drained of milk. How the heck did this happen???

As I mentioned, dreams were dashed shortly thereafter by that cretin up the block.  But, even then, I was skeptical.  This can't possibly be true, can it?  I asked my mother.  She essentially assured me that there was a nasty code of justice at the North Pole.

"Santa doesn't like what Monte said.  He will get no toys this Christmas."

A-ha!

But, doubts had been raised sufficiently for me to survey that year's Christmas morning haul.  I flipped over my Zorro play set.  What was this on the bottom?  I could read basic words.  Hmmmm.  A store sticker.

E.J. KORVETTE'S.

I looked at my Flintstones play set, complete with the entire town of Bedrock.  A store sticker again?

E.J. KORVETTE'S.

Mom?

"Wow, Santa shops nearby."

Okay, how long are you going to keep this up?

Yeah, it all ended right there in our wrapping-paper-strewn living room.

End of my Santa quest.  There would be no more sleeping at the top of the stairs.  And, oh, by the way, Dad, how was that milk and cookie?

Years later, I wound up on the flip side of this obsession. I was living in Yonkers next door to good friends. I was little Jason's unofficial uncle. And every Christmas Eve, we would get together to hang out with a bottle or two of Bailey's Irish Cream until the wee hours. I even got to be the one to gobble up the milk and cookies dutifully left by Jason.

One year, at around 1AM, Jason bounced downstairs from his bedroom.

"Uncle Lenny, go home!!! Santa won't come if you're still here drinking!"

Yep, Santa goes kaput eventually for everybody.

Dinner last night:  Moo shu pork from Century Dragon.