No, Timmy, There Is No Santa Clause

Yes No Virginia  Timmy, There Is A  No Santa Clause

 “The greatest thing is not to believe in

Santa Clause; it is to be Santa Clause.”

                                                                            -Pat Boone

At Halloween, Timmy had the discipline and stamina of a long-distance runner. With staggered Trick-or-Treat hours in the communities that were within striking distance, Timmy hauled in more loot than Blackbeard the Pirate. He had the instincts of an Army scout at Easter, and his parents could never find a challenging hiding place for his basket. Timmy dreamed bigger than Walter Mitty at Christmas as he tirelessly wrote and re-wrote his wish list. The kid was a finely tuned gathering machine when it came to raking in free goodies.

He understood the importance of communicating his desires to the one who could best deliver at Christmas- Santa. He held the record for time eclipsed sitting on the mall Santa’s lap three years in a row, and he reinforced the message by hanging a copy of his list (two legal-size sheets taped together) on the fireplace screen… facing inward so Santa would be sure to see it upon landing.

“Timmy, don’t be disappointed if Santa doesn’t bring you everything on your list. There are other children out there who want toys too. Santa’s elves can only do so much.”

“I know, just so I get my top ten things.”

“Timmy…”

“Ok, top… five?”

“Timmy… “

Mom and son both smiled.

“Yes, Mom. I’ll be happy with whatever Santa brings me.”

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It was a solid middle-class neighborhood, an industrial suburb of a major city with well-kept homes and tree-lined streets. Fords, Buicks, and Chevrolets parked in the driveways- no Caddies, Volvos, or Beemers. Timmy could walk six blocks in three different directions to get to a playground where he’d always find kids to play with. It was a different time.

He had little interest in doing anything with his little sister, and his big brother had little interest in doing anything with him, but there were plenty of kids in his neighborhood to play with. Billy, Stevie, Vince, and Bruce all went to Jefferson, while his best buddy Johnny was in the 4^th Grade with him at St. Rita’s.

There was one other boy, Charlie, who lived across the street in the lone multi-family building in the neighborhood. Timmy’s group would grudgingly recruit Charlie whenever they needed another warm body to complete the lineup card for touch football in the vacant lot next to Johnny’s house or basketball at the hoop hung on Bruce’s garage. Charlie wasn’t very good at anything, but he was always available.

“Timmy, why did you pick Charlie to be on our team?”

‘Somebody had to take him.”

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Parents understand that there is usually one special, stand-alone present a kid wants for Christmas, and they are just as disappointed as their child if it isn’t under the tree. Just last year Timmy’s Dad drove 150 miles in search of the elusive Easy-Bake oven. (Timmy’s little sister Susie made one lonely, irregularly shaped muffin Christmas Day, and then the wonder-toy sat on a shelf in the basement the rest of the year. Timmy’s Dad tried to re-gift it to one of his nieces this Christmas, but his wife wouldn’t let him.)

This year the Holy Grail of Christmas presents for Timmy reflected a young boy’s natural transition from only wanting toys and more toys to also having an interest in possessing cool stuff. His Uncle Ronnie played football for Wisconsin, and Timmy’s heart was set on the authentic Badger winter jacket with a ‘W’ on the front and a fierce-looking Bucky on the back. Fortunately, it was readily available and wouldn’t require a crusade-like effort on his Dad’s part.

Timmy was a bright little boy, and he understood one of the major principles of making a good argument… or plea. Hit ‘em early and hit ‘em late.

“Dad, when I talk to Santa this year, the first thing I’ll tell him is that I want that Badger jacket. Then I’ll go through my list, and at the very end, just before I hop off his lap, I’ll say something like, ‘Oh, and did I mention how much I’d like to get a Badger winter jacket?’ What do you think?”

“Shrewd, Timmy, very shrewd.”

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Football was the boys’ favorite, and snow day games were the best. Shoveling done, Timmy headed over to join the rest of the boys at Johnny’s house.

“Stevie already left for his Grandparents for Christmas. We need one more guy, Timmy. You better go get Charlie.”

“Vince, why is it always up to me to get Charlie,?”

“Well, because… you know…”

Sometimes there is a natural order to things, even for nine-year-olds. Timmy was the logical emissary for the group. Maybe some leadership qualities were showing through, or perhaps the boys perceived the confidence in him needed to approach the door of relative unknowns.

 Snow was falling as Timmy crossed the street in the middle of the block and ran to the building at the corner. He raised his hand to knock on Door #2 but stopped when he heard a loud angry voice… yelling, shouting, some crying, and the sound of broken glass. He froze, relieved he hadn’t knocked, but afraid he’d be discovered standing at the door. He held his breath and slowly backed away.

“Timmy, where’s Charlie?”

“Uh, he wasn’t home.”

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There are degrees of emotional distress in life- embarrassed, mortified, and humiliated. Unfortunately for Timmy, he skipped stages one and two and went right to humiliation, actually devastating humiliation, on the last day of school before Christmas vacation. The instrument of his woe? One of his favorite subjects- Santa.

“So class, is it ok for parents to tell their children there is a Santa? Patricia, you had your hand up first.”

“No, Sister, it’s telling a lie, and it’s never ok to tell a lie.”

“Bobby, what do you think?”

“Well, even if it’s not true, it’s just kind of a fun thing to do, you know, like make-believe. I think it’s ok. Santa’s just a fun thing for little kids.”

“But the 8^th Commandment, Sister. Thou shalt not lie. It’s not right.”

Timmy was puzzled. He was not tracking with what they were all saying. The whole discussion seemed to be based on what he knew to be a faulty premise- that there was no Santa. Timmy had solid evidence to the contrary. His Grandfather met Santa early one Christmas morning, and Grandpa and his parents had related the story to Timmy many times. Regrettably, Timmy raised his hand.

“Sister, everyone is talking like there is no Santa, and I know there is a Santa. One Christmas Eve my Grandfather heard a noise downstairs and when he went to check it out, he found Santa putting presents under the tree.”

Tommy was gaining confidence with every word. He was proud to be setting the record straight.

“Then he took Santa into the kitchen and they had a cup of coffee together.”

Silence. The entire room was silent. Sister Mary Catherine didn’t say a word, but her eyes delivered the message- “Oh, you poor child.” This was quickly followed by uproarious laughter from the entire class until Sister Mary Catherine invoked the mercy rule and made them stop.

It’s never good to be the last kid in your class to stop believing in Santa. It’s even worse to be discovered in such a public forum. Timmy spent the rest of the day quietly suffering at his desk wishing he were somewhere else.

During the seven-block walk home from school, Timmy’s humiliation slowly drifted into the welcome distraction of outright anger toward his parents. He felt betrayed, set up, and yes, lied to. He wasn’t too happy with Grandpa either.

“How could you do this to me?!”

“I guess we thought kids just figure these things out themselves.”

“I’ll never forgive you for this!”

Kids always say things like that, so Timmy’s parents weren’t particularly concerned. Timmy’s big brother wasn’t helpful.

“Fourth Grade and you believed in Santa? Oh, my God. I knew he was fake in the first Grade.”

The scars of the day followed Timmy to bed. Sleep eluded him as he realized he might have an even bigger problem than suffering the ridicule of his classmates. He was wrestling with his new reality- there was no Santa and the accompanying issue. Who was going to bring him all those goodies at Christmas?

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The world had a different feel to it as Timmy walked down the alley to meet up with his buddies at Bruce’s house to shoot some hoops. The humiliation was fading, but he felt as though something had been taken from him.

The boys chopped away the ice on the driveway and played a little two-on-two. Every so often they’d take the ball inside and run it under hot water to give it a little more bounce. They were surprised when they saw Charlie approaching. He spoke timidly, softly.

“Hey, could I.. maybe play?”

“Sorry, Charlie, we’ve got already got four. Five guys won’t work.”

“That’s ok, Bruce, we can alternate. One guy can just sit out for a while.”

Charlie offered Timmy a hint of a thankful smile. Timmy looked at Charlie with a sympathetic eye. He understood. Charlie wasn’t interested in basketball. He just wanted to be with these guys, to feel like he was part of something, that he belonged. Timmy felt good about finding a spot for him.

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“Dad, do you know Charlie’s parents?”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“The kid from the apartment building at the end of the block. He’s got shaggy blonde hair.”

“Yeah, I know who you mean. Sometimes we call him the little street urchin.”

“What’s an urchin?”

“Well, it’s like a child who looks a little out of place, lost, maybe up to some mischief. And maybe not dressed the best… clothes a little dirty and ragged. Your Mom says she’s seen him at the Jefferson playground some Saturdays… alone. I don’t know his parents, but why are you asking about them?”

“Well… I went to get him a few days ago and I could hear a lot of yelling from inside his place. It was a man yelling, Dad, and he was using a lot of bad words. He used the ‘F’ word, Dad.”

“Was your friend there?”

“I’m pretty sure he was. I was scared, and it made me sad. I feel bad for Charlie.”

“I feel bad for him too.”

Timmy’s Dad bent down and hugged his son.

“Dad…”

“Yes, Timmy?”

“I’m glad that you’re my Dad.”

“I’m pretty happy about that myself, Timmy.”

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The traditional family Christmas shopping trip was bittersweet for Timmy. He loved seeing the decorations and the massive model train display in the center of the mall, but he dreaded seeing Santa’s Village and the imposter in the big chair. The highlight of the excursion had been taken from him, and he was mad about it.

He was trying to figure out who he should be mad at. His parents for not leveling with him? His older brother for not cluing him in? Himself for being so gullible? The center of the whole deception- Santa? No, he finally settled in on Sister Mary Catherine. What business was it of hers to destroy his belief in a harmless, wonderful idea? The humiliation became secondary. She stole away his ability to dream of good things, happy things, to imagine things that didn’t seem possible.

He saw the smiling, happy children lined up at Santa’s Village, and he wanted to be one of them. He missed the excitement of holding his wish list tight in his hands as he waited his turn. Timmy wanted to hop over the red velvet rope and run to Santa and beg him to be real. He wanted to be that child again.

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Timmy eased himself back into the real world. Santa or no Santa, it was time to be practical. He had to have that Badger jacket. Plan A had been demolished, so he quickly shifted gears and implemented his hastily prepared Plan B.

“Dad, did you see that cool Badger jacket in the Sears catalog?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, here… I cut it out for you.”

“Mom, they say it’s going to be a cold winter.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a guy should have a nice, warm jacket.”

“Of course.”

“I just happened to see this jacket in the Sears Catalog.”

“How nice.”

“Dad, you know, I was thinking. I bet your brother Ronnie would get a kick out of seeing me in a jacket like this.”

Three days to Christmas and Timmy was in full-court press mode.

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Eight inches of good packing snow and Christmas vacation. It was a kid’s dream day.

They were all there- Timmy, Bruce, Vince, Johnny, Stevie, Billy, and even Charlie. The snowball fight started at Billy’s, stalled at Vince’s, picked up steam at Bruce’s, and ended with a spectacular bombardment at Timmy’s. The warring factions made peace and worked in close cooperation to build a snowman in each kid’s yard, followed by the construction of the best snow fort in town.”

“What do you want for Christmas, Stevie?”

“A Lionel train set, Timmy, with a locomotive that blows real smoke.”

“Cool. What do you want, Billy?”

“One of those race car tracks… of maybe a remote control car.”

And so it went, each boy telling the group what was on their Christmas list. Timmy noticed Charlie looking down toward the ground and seemingly disinterested in the conversation. Even at the age of nine, Timmy sensed it might be poor form to boast about the cool jacket he might be getting. He left it generic and modest.

“I’m not sure. I’m still working on it… maybe a basketball… or a Packer shirt.”

Timmy had to ask.

“And how about you, Charlie? What do you want for Christmas?”

“I don’t know. Nothing I guess.”

It was the tone that struck Timmy, a blend of sadness and resignation to his reality. It seemed that it wasn’t so much that Charlie didn’t want anything, but more that he wasn’t expecting anything. Unseen forces moved Timmy to ask the follow-up question.

“Well, what did you get last year, Charlie?”

“Nothing.”

The word scorched Timmy’s heart. He had never known a kid who didn’t want anything for Christmas or who didn’t get anything. The fun day quickly dissipated into the snowflakes swirling around him.

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“Mom, could I have ten dollars?”

“What do you need ten dollars for?”

“That boy down the street… Charlie. I want to get him something for Christmas.”

“Charlie? I don’t even know who that is. He can’t be that good of a friend of yours that you’d want to get him a present.”

“He’s not, really. It’s just that I don’t think he gets anything for Christmas.”

“Don’t his parents get him something?”

“I don’t think so.”

And then a wry smile.

“And remember, Mom, it’s better to give than to receive.”

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Timmy was fortunate that he and his Mom didn’t have to pass Santa’s Village to get to the toy store. He didn’t want to relive the trauma of what his new Christmas looked like.

“Timmy, you’ve got to pick out something. Whatever you decide on. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

 Now it was Mom’s turn for the wry smile.

“Remember, it’s the thought that counts.”

After scouring every aisle and every shelf, Timmy settled on a set of Match Box cars.

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The tradition at Timmy’s house was each kid got to open one present on Christmas Eve. Timmy was an expert at analyzing and predicting content based on the size and weight of a package, and once again he nailed it. He smiled broadly as he slipped on his new Badger jacket and stood in front of the full-length mirror. It looked even better than he had imagined.

“Thank you, Mom and Dad!”

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Timmy had trouble sleeping. His mind was drifting in and out of the images of the past few weeks- the jacket in the Sears catalog, Sister Mary Catherine standing at the front of the classroom and trashing his dream, the laughter of the other children, the pain of passing Santa’s Village at the mall, the monumental snowball fight, and Charlie… Charlie… Charlie.

He couldn’t escape the ugly sounds he heard at Charlie’s door. Not wanting anything for Christmas. Not getting anything for Christmas. His Dad’s seemingly apt description of the shabby apparel of a street urchin. The look in Charlie’s eyes when the boys excitedly talked about their Christmas wishes while Charlie appeared to be… dreamless.

“Nothing”… “nothing”… “nothing”. The word tormented him as he tossed and turned in his bed. Match Box cars didn’t seem to meet the occasion. Where was Santa when he needed him?

Timmy loved Santa… or was it the idea of Santa, the ability to dream? Did Sister Mary Catherine really take Santa out of his life? How could she?

Timmy’s eyes popped wide open. The world needs Santa. It is a better place with a Santa in it, and he was just the guy who could do something about it.

He slipped out of bed, got dressed, and snuck downstairs. He put the Badger jacket back in the box, rewrapped it the best he could with scraps of discarded paper, and applied generous amounts of tape. With a Magic Marker, he wrote on the package, “To Charlie from Santa.”

A lone figure passed under the streetlight at 2:00 A.M., quietly entered the building at the corner, and left the package in front of Door #2. Timmy walked home with a smile, warmed by the thought he had just brought a little joy to this part of the world.