My Favorite Santa

When I arrive home, it is already dark. But, I am greeted by row upon row of Santas, all shapes and sizes, filling our front yard. Merry Christmas, I think, my tired eyes inspecting them as I pass by. I slowly take the steps up to my back door, careful to avoid the ice that reformed after a sunny afternoon. I have left the light on, because know one wants to come home to a dark home. And, I have the dog to look out for. After I let him out, I hang up my coat, and put my keys in the dish by the door. I start a fire in the fireplace, and settle down in my chair, eating some leftovers from Christmas Eve. 

I avoid Facebook and Instagram. I don’t want to see my friends with their grandchildren, or my nieces snuggled up on their couch with their handsome husbands or little ones. I am not a complete grinch. I always put up the Christmas tree, and do light decorations. I haven’t bought anything new for the holidays in the last three years, but I follow the routine of getting out the boxes, putting each curated Christmas item in its place. There have been no new gifts, no handmade ornaments, or anything different for the past six years.

The tree gets fluffed, and the white lights strung. Jim always hated the colored lights; he said it wasn’t traditional and it looked cartoonish. I didn’t have an opinion either way, so we stuck with white lights, and I guess I always will. It’s just through the motions, really. 

Our best decorations, though, according to the Gazette, are the Santas. Our front yard is covered in Santas. We are the official “Old Folks Home for Santas,” according to our local news. Jim couldn’t ever let anything with a few years left in it go to waste. He was a tinkerer and a fixer. 

The first few Santas were our own. I inherited one from my own parents, and he from his dad. Jim’s mom passed away many years ago, before we were even married. On our first Christmas together, we purchased a Santa – a new one, designed to look old. Our three Santas, like three wise men, proudly displayed on our porch. 

As we were coming home from church, the Sunday after Christmas, we saw a discarded Santa by the road.

“Well, that’s not right,” Jim said, pulling over and putting on his hazards. “You can’t do that to Santa.”

“Really? We’re garbage picking now,” I said, as I watched him quickly inspect this Santa, and then open the truck. Of course, he didn’t fit. He rode in our back seat, and joined our Santas on the front step. He was badly burned on the backside – we used to make up stories about how he burned himself going down the chimney – and the next winter, Jim fixed the electrical for this Santa, but we kept the burn marks. The kids always called him “Burned Butt Santa,” and he was the house favorite.

All of our Santas (there were 147 this year), have now lined our front yard for the past 19 years. 

Obviously, I cannot put them all out anymore. At first, Jim put them up with the kids. Once our population increased, we had the brothers, sisters, and cousins over. It became the kick off to Christmas – we got together on the Friday after Thanksgiving (after the ladies did their Black Friday shopping), and I served chilli. The men drank beer, the ladies wine coolers, and the kids played, passing through the kitchen every so often to grab something from the counter to eat. These days, the township helps me. There is no family left at home, and the aunts, uncles, and cousins are all busy with their own families. And, I don’t blame them. I don’t really like being here either, so why would anyone else want to come. 

Don’t get me wrong. I am not that sad, old woman you feel bad for, though some do, probably. I still get invited to things, like Christmas Eve with one of my nieces who lives around the block. I do leave the house, too. I’m not a shut-in. I take walks with the dog, I clean out the flower beds. I go to church everyday, because I like the routine. Every weekend, I make the two hour drive to see Thomas. Five years ago, I had the house finished; we had the money, and there was no point in pretending I wanted to tinker and fix like Jim did.

These days, especially this winter, I don’t see the point in a lot of things. I create a schedule for each day, and I stick to it. I still plan out my menus for the week, just like I did when we were a family of five. It’s not necessary, obviously, but, there is comfort in routine, and there is comfort in marking off the days on my calendar.

I let Beige out one more time (I know it’s a silly name for a dog, but Jim and I had 4 dogs together, and each one was named after a color), and head upstairs to get ready for bed. 

There is a sound at the door, someone moving about on the creaky boards – which, let me tell you, is terrifying for an old woman. It was after 9:00 o’clock, on Christmas Eve. I learned 18 years ago that anyone coming to your door after 9:00 only brings bad news. 

It was 18 years ago that we heard a similar sound on our porch. It was Officer Johnson. He was an old friend of Jim’s – most of us who grew up in Yuba were all friends at one time – either when we were children, or when our children were young and we would sit to watch softball or baseball. 

We were the only ones home that night. It was the start of winter break for the boys and they were sleeping over at friends’ houses; Shannon was out of school then and while she lived with us, she spent more evenings with her boyfriend at his apartment. 

Jim yelled up to me, “Someone is here, I’m going to check it out, and then I’ll be up.”

I didn’t answer the door, Jim did. I didn’t even care who was there. And, I wasn’t even on planning on coming down from our room, until I heard a loud thud. I was afraid Jim was being mugged. I heard a wail, and Officer Johnson talking quietly. I found Jim on the floor, Jim with his hand on his back. 

“I’m sorry,” was what Officer Johnson said. 

And, I knew. Without knowing what had happened, I knew it was awful, and I knew everything from now on would be before and after. And, you know what happened. Everyone did. There is something especially hard when everyone knows what happened to you, and still, not one person knows the right thing to say, or what the right thing to do is. They know right from wrong – they don’t stop talking to you outright. You’re still invited to things and people will stop and tell you how sorry they are in the grocery store. But it doesn’t help, and you start to think it is all more for them, so they don’t feel badly or feel like a bad person. Because there is nothing that can undo the agony you feel when you’ve lost a child. 

And, I can tell you, it’s worse than losing a husband. And, I can tell you it doesn’t get easier when you lose another child. Or, when your child becomes lost to addiction. I have lived them all – I have lived each day. Each day I mark on my calendar takes me closer to when I can stop living these routines and just not…

I decide to be brave, and wrapping my robe tightly around me, I head down the stairs, turning on each light as I do. I think about grabbing something in case I need it, but that’s silly. I’m a silly old lady.

As I peek through the window, I see a young man walking carefully down the path to his car, which is still running. I open the door, and he turns. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be home. I read about your Santas – and my mom told me about them. I had forgotten you guys were doing this. She said she’s a friend of yours. Barb – Barb Gunn. We had this Santa. The lights burned up. I didn’t know if it was too broken for you. If you don’t want it, I can take it.”

I looked at the Santa. He was small, a little beat up. Definitely an older one. I look at his face – he had rosy cheeks, the hat, a button nose. His eyes seemed to look right at me. They were dark, they were knowing. I walked around him, and saw the back looked scorched. If it wasn’t another burned butt Santa.

“See what I mean,” the young man said, as he walked back. “I think the light blew. My mom said she’d have my dad fix it, but you probably know, he’s not doing too well. It was actually his idea to bring it here. He said if Jim was here, he’d fix it up. I know he’s not. But I was thinking, maybe, he could just stay here. Or, like I said throw him away. He’s had a good run,” he said, laughing nervously. 

“No, no. He won’t get thrown away. He still has some good days left in him. Thank you for thinking of me. Tell you mom, I mean. And, Merry Christmas,” I say – never looking at this bearer of gifts, but instead, focusing on this Santa’s eyes.

“Yeah, hey, no problem. And, sorry – I’m sorry. I was good friends with Sam. We had a couple classes together. He was a good guy. He had a good heart – I think that’s what did it to him. He always cared. You’d see him looking at things, taking them in. Nothing got past that guy. And, I’m sorry about Thomas. I didn’t know him much, but sometimes he’d give me a ride from work. He wasn’t a bad guy either. I think he just took this all a different way. I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know how any of you do it. Now I’m rambling. Anyway, I thought you should know. Merry Christmas.” 

I stand there, watching him drive away. Back to his house, with his mom, and probably his wife and maybe a baby. It’s just me and Santa. I decide to take this one in. He won’t light up, but he’s just fine the way he is. 

As I carry the Santa inside, I feel the weight of its history, its imperfections etched into its rosy cheeks and scorched back. I set him on the dresser in my room, his knowing eyes catching the glow of the bedside lamp.

“Thank you, Jim,” I whisper, my voice catching. “He’s perfect. Merry Christmas.”

And for the first time in years, I feel a flicker of something beyond routine—a quiet sense of presence, a reminder that even the burned and broken can still bring light.