Christmas Magic

At what age did I begin to understand that Santa is a only a dream? Five or six? By the time I was seven or eight there were dismaying inklings he might not really exist. Belief shrunk a little every year. First that Santa lived with Mrs. Santa and the elves all year, then he existed only a month or so before Christmas and then only on Christmas Eve and finally only at midnight for one magical hour. Even that was hard to hold onto.

It didn’t matter what older kids told me. By seven I had learned to ask hard questions for myself: Do reindeer actually fly? The North Pole had a definite geographical location and it was pretty darn far from my house. How could one person, if Santa really was a person, visit everyone in the whole world?

By eight I knew Santa did not visit many children especially poor, hungry children in faraway countries. Or even poor children not far from our own house because Mom and Dad delivered grocery bags to poor families down the road in Haddam Neck and sometimes grocery bags of my own toys and books that I had played with and didn’t mind saying good-bye to.

As I began to notice that Santa Claus was fatter than any grown-up I knew, he seemed to melt like a snowman. How could he jump down the chimney when I burned my fingers hanging up a stocking? Even on Christmas Eve my parents argued. The world was becoming a painful place because all my senses denied Santa Claus.

I held on as long as I could. I loved the tooth fairy and the little people who lived under the morning mushrooms. But when I stopped looking under toadstools I could still find them in books. Of all Mom’s tales, I loved best the story of how the animals talk at midnight on Christmas Eve.

Of all the magic in my state of grace, communing with the animals was dearest. Ah, I longed to hear what my dog and cat could tell me, the words of the birdsongs, the conversation among those bony cows in the pasture and when I could find one, a horse—oh, to talk to a horse that might sprout wings and fly—that would be better than a tooth fairy and little people and even dear, fat Santa Claus.

“How come animals can talk at midnight, Momma?”
“Because Baby Jesus is born. That’s a miracle. Strange and wonderful things happen when there’s a miracle.”

“But why can’t I hear them talk?”

My mother shook her head. “It’s too late for little girls. But I know they do. I’ve heard them. Now snuggle up and Daddy will read “Twas the Night Before Christmas."

She put her finger beside her nose and cocked her head as if to hear something faint. "And listen for Santa’s sleigh bells.”

Talking animals. Would they tell me they were happy? Now, the birth of Baby Jesus was mildly interesting, Joseph was the father but not really a father like my Dad. A real Dad was much better. I knew that people had babies all the time and visitors came to admire them, although not kings on camels, at least not in Middle Haddam. I knew the whole story of Baby Jesus because every year I played a small part in our Sunday school’s Christmas pageant. Never Mary or even the Angel, those star roles went to the big kids. No, the best I could do was to wear an extremely scratchy burlap shepherd costume over my undies and carry a heavy stick. There was not one live sheep or donkey in the crèche. Even Baby Jesus was just somebody’s doll.

It was cold being a shepard. My bare arms and legs froze because the rector wouldn’t waste heat on a twenty-minute kids’ pageant. Grownups in the congregation wore their coats and scarves and hats and couldn’t wait for us kids to thump up the aisle, take our positions and hold still while the choir and congregation sang “Oh Holy Night,” “Silent Night” and “We Three Kings”. Even the organist wore gloves. Then we could go home and have supper.

After supper I put on my velvet dress and Mary Jane shoes to go to a real, grown-up Christmas Eve party. Handsome David and his wife, Henny, greeted me as solemnly as if I were a delightful guest and not a bratty kid that hung around with their kids every single day. This inspired me to behave like a lady for the whole evening. Every room in the lovely old colonial house gleamed and flickered with Christmas swags and wreaths, red and gold ribbons, lit only with candles. Candles upstairs and down, in every room, in every window: highly dangerous around folks tipsy on David’s eggnog. That only added to the excitment of watching the growups talk as if we children were invisible elves.

I did not horse around or almost tip over the tree or spill my eggnog cup on younger Helen or Alice to torment them. I was very, very good, good for David and Henny and my parents, maybe for Santa whose time was drawing near and especially for the animals who would talk later that evening when I would lie in my little bed up under the sloped ceiling.

After we got home, Mom and Dad puttered around downstairs, perhaps speaking to the dog, perhaps speaking with the dog. I wished they’d told me they were going to do that, wished I could rouse my sleepy self to tiptoe down the stairs to listen in on them. At that moment, as warm waves of sleep washed me into the ocean of dreams, I knew all the animals were talking and although I would miss it this year, it was really happening. And Santa Claus was really going to eat those cookies I left on the hearth. Tomorrow morning would prove it.

In the dim light of dawn, the house utterly silent, I snuck down the stairs to capture my dream one more time. Lights gleamed on the tree and there, right where I had hung it, proof: the fattened stocking.

I was nine or even ten that year when I could, for one last moment, hear the faint sound of bells as Santa's sleigh lifted off the roof.