Terry visited

Santa

 each year at a nice country club. Her mother always dressed her to highlight her lovely red hair. Smiling and anxious to see Santa, she practically ran to my lap the first two years.

However, the third and last year she never smiled. Terry was not radiating with the glee children have when they see Santa. With a slightly slumped posture, she approached Santa slowly, almost cautiously. Her lips hidden. Her upper and lower lips were pinched gently between both sets of teeth.

Terry was the physical expression of being, “tight-lipped.” Her body language said she was not telling me everything. She was emotionally distant from Santa.

Terry and I proceeded with the “Santa thing.” She was ten years old and in the fifth grade. Had been good. She hoped to receive a Wii and some clothes for Christmas. I said I would try to get these gifts for her. I felt Terry to be a “true believer.” However, it was hard to know for sure. I gave her a hug and wished her happy holidays.

There was a long line of children yet to see Santa that day. The remaining children approached Santa in his big Santa chair one-by-one for the “Santa thing.” At the end of the line of young ladies was, one more time, the tight-lipped Terry. She patiently waited for an opportunity to see Santa again.

Terry came to me, her lips still tucked between both sets of teeth. Still not smiling. With a serious look on her face. She stopped this lip clenching just long enough to say, “Are you real?”

In my Mon to Fri life, I am in sales. Therefore, I have been taught that before answering a question, to make sure I understand exactly what is being asked.

I responded, in my deep, pleasant, Santa voice, “Why, what do you mean?”

Terry said, “Well, some boys at school are saying you’re not real. That mom and dad leave the presents for me every year.” Terry’s face went immediately back to the solemn, tight-lipped expressionless pose I had been getting from her all day.

Now I understood why Terry had been so tight-lipped. She had indeed been hiding something. Now I understood the anxiety Terry was facing. She was ten years old. And the logic the boys were presenting her was just beginning to make a little sense. And a lot of anxiety.

Like any child, she wished to never let go of the magic of Santa Claus.

A Wii purchased at Kay Mark can never compare with: A three dimensional, flat screen, software driven device, created, designed and manufactured by seventeen of the multi-hundred elves, using specifications written personally by Santa in North Pole software, specifically for you!

Mom in her nightgown with eyes half-open, and dad sipping coffee in his pajamas at 1:00 am in the morning, can never measure up to:

Santa landing his reindeer on the roof and coming magically down the chimney in bright red with white fur trim.

Mom looking frantically to remember where she left the wrapping paper. And dad cursing about the stubborn nut that will not screw properly onto the rear axle of the new dirt bike, can never come close to:

Santa attentively placing personal gifts about the room, each in its’ own meticulously thought out location for every individual child.

When you were little, did you ever wonder why mom and dad were so tired on Christmas Day?

Probably not. You were too busy enjoying your: three dimensional, flat screen, software driven device, created, designed and manufactured by seventeen of the multi-hundred elves, working with specifications written by Santa himself in North Pole software.

Attractively bundled by two more elves in the Wrapping Department. Also according to Santa’s guidelines.

And placed meticulously by the elf himself in your very own living room for no one other than you.

Now I understood why Terry had been so tight-lipped. And now you understand as well. Terry was teetering on the “Santa Claus Precipice.” Walking the razor thin line between one of the ultimate childhood ecstasies: and having to grow up before she needs to.

Walking the thin line between carefree childhood and having to shoulder some of the not-so pleasant realities of life.

Why would anyone abandon such magic?

Therefore, I spoke to Terry and answered her dire question in the most helpful and supportive manner I could.

With a soft smile, I looked Terry in the eye, and said, “Terry………….do you really think one person can travel to every home in the European continent on Dec 6th? Every home in just one night?”

“Then on Dec 25th visit every home in North America: that’s Mexico, Canada, the 48 contiguous States, possessions, territories, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and the Florida Keys? In just one night?”

“Do you really think 2400 elves work year round in sub-zero temperatures to produce the very same Wii that mom and dad can purchase at any Kay-Mart?” (or Que’-Mart if you live in Mexico.)

I leaned forward. I looked deeper into Terry’s ever widening eyes. I spoke louder and louder as I went.

“Do you think presents for millions of children can fit in one sleigh?”

“Do you think reindeer can fly?”

“Terry…….you’re a bright young lady. Grow up. Use the good sense the lord gave a horse.”

“Mom and dad purchased all those presents for you!”

“The “My Little Horsie” you got at age five was bought on line.”

“The Barbee doll house at age six was a Federal-Ex two-day delivery.”

“The bichon puppy at age 7 was $147 at the Elk Lane Puppy Farm”. (Puppy vaccinations included. All veterinarian care guaranteed for the first 90 days.)

I wasn’t even finished. But now the previously tight-lipped Terry had dropped her mouth agape in shock. Her eyes opened wide with an overwhelming expression of both pain and confusion.

I paused.

She paused.

And she let out a long shrill scream that was heard in St Joseph, MO.

No, that didn’t happen!!!

I can’t believe you fell for that.

You’re half-way through my book. You know me by now. I’m the guy who wrote that Santa is sacred to children.

The story of Terry is true. I did not make it up.

And here is how it really ended.

Terry said, “Well, some boys at school are saying you’re not real. That mom and dad leave the presents for me every year.”

Now was a moment of truth.

It was time for Santa to step up to the plate.

Time for my best portrayal ever. Time to muster all the theatrical inspiration I had ever garnered from the great ones: Laurence Olivier and Burt Lancaster. Now was the time to put reality and logic aside. To enact the role of a character (Santa) so well the fifth grade boys could never pan the part.

Olivier would have been proud.

I looked at Terry with amazement.

I spoke in my loudest, boldest Santa voice, and said, “Don’t I bring you everything you ask for every Christmas?”

Terry’s posture immediately straightened. I swear she grew four inches right before my eyes.

A n d   s h e   s m i l e d!!! A smile that stretched from the Pacific to the Atlantic. One of those boundless smiles Mother Nature gives only to children. Terry’s smiling face was bobbing up-and-down in an enthusiastic, “Yes! You bring me everything I ask for, every Christmas!”

In an instant, everything changed. I had rescued Terry from the cold abyss of pre-adolescent reality.

Here is another lesson I learned in sales. Once the agreement has been made, close your mouth. Leave well enough alone.

I said nothing more to convince Terry I was real. She was convinced. I hugged her and again wished her a very happy holiday.

She turned and left. Her re-energized frame radiating with newfound energy. Her head bobbing up-and-down with a joyful expression of “Yes!”

I hoped my portrayal would be strong enough to prevent the fifth grade boys from further encroaching on the magic of Christmas in Terry’s heart.

As I watched Terry go, I knew I had done all I could to arrange one more magic holiday for her to enjoy. Another happy season before junior high and the confusion that comes with adolescence. Before high school and all its’ anxieties. Before the responsibilities of career and parenthood cause “magical beliefs” to make way for other joys.

Only after Terry left did I notice three other girls standing silently nearby. They stared at me, motionless. Eleven or twelve years of age. They had been witnessing the interaction I had with Terry. They were missing the magical belief they enjoyed just a few years earlier. After a moment, they turned and walked slowly away. Saying nothing to each other or myself. Their silence said it all.

Doesn’t every Terry, every child, deserve as many uncomplicated, joyful seasons as can be arranged?