[Nyerges is the author of several books and blogs. He can
be reached at www.ChristopherNyerges.com.]
Christmas was always a special
time, though in my very earliest memories, there were no religious
overtones. I was taken to church every
Sunday, of course, but the Christmas decorations and gatherings were all
something that happened at home, not at church. When I was too young to speak, I realized that Christmas was the
season that happened during the coldest time of the year, and it meant that
we’d have a fire going in the fireplace, people would be coming over, and
there’d be lots of gifts and food. The
food was cookies, tangerines, and walnuts.
One of my earliest Christmas
memories was when I was told that Santa Claus would come to our home and bring
gifts, and that he had some way to figure out where I lived. I didn’t know exactly why, but there was a
great mystery about this fat, bearded, red-suited Santa man. People spoke about him in hushed tones, and
would even sometimes stop talking about him when I came near.
My brother Tom told me that Santa Claus would come
down the chimney – something I found hard to believe considering how fat he
appeared in the pictures. We both
peered up into our fireplace one day and wondered how Santa could get through
the narrow passageway. We didn’t even
think that we would be able to crawl through there.
“Plus, doesn’t dad have a screen over the top of the
chimney to keep the pigeons out?” Tom asked.
I didn’t know. “I hope he
remembers to remove it for Santa.”
On Christmas Eve, our dad showed us a plate of
cookies and a pot of coffee that had been set out for Santa.
We barely slept, and I tried to not sleep so I could
be the first to rush out and catch a glimpse of this Santa. But I fell asleep, and Tom woke me and
Rick. We jumped out of bed, and ran
down the hall. We weren’t particularly
interested in gifts, but we wanted to catch Santa. We were too late, but the three of us carefully examined the
remaining evidence. There were no
cookies left on the plate – only crumbs – and there was only a small amount of
coffee left in the cup. Tom held the
cup and carefully peered into it, and then Rick and I stared into the cup, the
proof that Santa had come and departed.
“See?” said Tom.
We all continued to stare into the cup a while longer, as if it might
reveal some secrets to us.
In a few more years, I noticed that people didn’t
fully hide their comments from me when speaking about Santa Claus.
“He believes in Santa Claus?” was met with muffled
response. What an odd question, I
thought. Why shouldn’t I believe in Santa Claus?
When I actually learned about this mythical aspect
of Christmas, I did go through a period of confusion and even anger at the
world of make-believe perpetrated entirely by adults and foisted upon me. I suppose I felt bad because I really wanted to believe in Santa Claus, and I
felt that he was a positive figure. And
I had been told to “be good” for Santa Claus, and that Santa Claus knew
everything I was doing. I was very
puzzled by all this, but I got over it.
In fact, I felt very uplifted when I learned that
there was an actual historical person upon which Santa Claus was based: a
Catholic bishop in Asia Minor (Turkey) of the 3rd century named
Nikolaos of Myra gave gifts to poor newlyweds around Christmas time. A century or so later, sainthood was
bestowed upon him, and he was known as Saint Nicholas. In honor of this very real person, people
began to give gifts to others, especially others in need, during the Christmas
season and say it was “from Saint Nicholas.”
What a wonderful story! What
would have been wrong with telling me that historical story rather than the
garbled mythology?
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