“That’s Not Santa, That’s Your Dad”

My siblings and I were so blessed to have parents who gave their five children the most beautiful and happy Christmases.

The first thing that went up in our house was the Nativity scene with all the characters in place waiting until midnight, Christmas Eve, for mom to place the Infant Jesus in the manger. She did that while we were sleeping before she and dad slipped out for Midnight Mass. I do not remember the prayer that we said at dinner every evening in Advent but I do remember the simple joy of lighting the Advent candles at the dinner table before grace. I think each of us five children was given the honor of lighting those candles, although I am not sure about Sheila, the youngest, who was four years younger than me, the next-to-the-youngest. It was a simple joy that is a very fond memory. At the time I am reminiscing about I was perhaps six years-old, although some of the memories I include here are from a few years later.

As the next-to-the-youngest I once explained to our parents’ best friends, Eddie and Lee Curtin, that I was like Tuesday. I informed them that my brother Austin, Jr. (God rest his soul) was special because he was the first-born. Then I explained to these wonderfully Catholic, wide-eyed listeners (Lee Curtin was a saint, Italian, Eddie was almost as Irish as my father, a good and holy man with a very good heart) that my older brother and sister, Richard and Mary Sue, were special because they were twins. And, finally, there was Sheila. She was special because she was the youngest. So, I explained, I was like Tuesday. You see, I went on, Sunday was the Lord’s day. Monday began the school week. Wednesday was the middle day of the week, so it had a central place. Thursday was sort of special because on Thursday youngsters are excited because Friday is coming and then we are out of school and free. I guess I did not like school very much as a child. And Saturday, well, Saturday is fun day, sports all year round, and after a few chores in the morning we were off and running. There was Pop Warner football Pee Wees and the Little League Reserves. I guess many want-to-be athletic fathers couldn’t resist living vicariously in their little tots so long as they could walk. Can you picture ten, nine, even eight year-olds with helmets and shoulder pads, and mouth pieces, and rubber spikes, playing tackle in uniforms? My father was not of that breed, but many other fathers of the baby boom generation were, and dad did not mind at all. Mom went to the games, but not dad. But Tuesday? Nothing special at all about Tuesday. Eddie and Lee always called me “Tuesday’s child” after that. May they rest in peace. I digress.

Mom and dad let us decorate the tree a week early (a real tree — almost every family of the lower middle class Catholics had real Christmas trees), except for two items: the angel to crown the tree, and the tinsel. These finishing touches required ceremony. What a thrill it was to deck the tree with the same ornaments every year, especially the different colored balls and the wrap around silver and gold ribbons. We all helped out with that as soon as the red, blue, green, yellow, and white lights were strung around the tree and the bulb test was done. Mom always had spare bulbs on hand. Often we had other morsels of multi-colored paper rings and other trinkets that we had made with the sisters at Our Lady of Lourdes grammar school.

My brothers and I decorated the windows of the front porch. An exquisite Madonna and Child (Was it a Botticelli?) on a round plastic sheet was taped up to the big window and Santa Claus went on the storm door window. No, he didn’t have a bottle of Coke in his hand. Then, the real fun began. We sprayed every free inch of glass with canned snow. Easy to put on, but hard to scrape off after it had frozen and dried.

Mom and my older sister seemed to be always baking and cleaning the week before Christmas. The boys got away with just vacuuming. The last thing we did before going to bed was throw tinsel on the tree. At least for me, this was great fun. It was the icing on the cake. Don’t they call tinsel “icing”? I think so.

Mom and dad made sure we were all in bed before eight o’clock on Christmas Eve, right after thumb tacking our big red stockings to the stairway wall frame. I guess the excitement made us all tired because, except for one occasion, we fell asleep fast as soon as we were sent upstairs to bed. That gave mom and dad time to take out our well-hidden presents, tag them, wrap them up, and put them under the tree.

I guess we all believed in Santa Claus although I do not remember much about that. If I got a coal in my stocking (and that was very possible because we had a coal furnace in the cellar) I knew it would have come from mom not Santa Claus. None of us ever got coal.

The only Santa Claus I ever personally encountered as a child was at a Cub Scout Christmas party. It was a huge event as I remember, the only one I ever went to as a child. My best friend and I were in line to meet Santa and get some kind of little toy from him. All the kids got something. And it wasn’t a candy cane. We were about six years old at the time I am thinking of. I hate to say seven because at seven we homo sapiens are supposed to have attained the use of reason. You cannot have the use of reason and believe in Santa Claus. Saint Thomas says so in the Summa. Well, my best friend kept telling me that that wasn’t Santa on the stage, it was my dad. I do not really remember what happened after that. My friend was right, however, as I learned later, but I wasn’t about to ask that question when I sat on Santa’s knee and looked him in the eye. My dad made the perfect Santa. He was good-sized, had a big chest, plump rosy cheeks, and thick snow-white hair. He only needed the beard.

This brings me to the one time that I did not fall totally asleep while mom and dad were at Midnight Mass. I heard someone downstairs in the wee hours that one Christmas morning, so I stood at the top of the stairs to listen. I heard mom whispering and actually giggling. This is a true story, with a bit of literary licence allowed, so don’t laugh! I tiptoed down the stairs and what did I see? Mommy kissing Santa Claus right in front of the piano no one in my family could play. I was traumatized. I slowly sneaked back upstairs keeping the secret to myself. (You see, dad used to dress up as Santa Claus every year when he was a young father, even after Midnight Mass apparently, and he and mom would stop in at some neighbor’s after Mass party.) When he came upstairs to wake us all up, he was not Santa Claus any longer.

This was the tradition at the Kelly house every Christmas: Dad would come to our rooms, pull our big toe (if you want a fault-proof method of waking someone up, try it, Dads), and we would come downstairs one by one. In the living room was a spectacular sight. The tree was all aglow and presents all around it. Mom was so happy. I remember her singing some of the carols that she sang at Midnight Mass with the choir. Mom had a wonderful voice.

The eldest child, Austin, opened his gifts first, then on down the line. Sheila was just a little lassie at the time I am remembering, and so she had to wait . . . and wait . . . and wait. Dad probably had her on his knee. Sometimes there were surprises when we received presents that we had never asked for. Like a Zoro outfit with a sword that made me a little crazy for a while. When I got to be a little older I knew I would get a basketball or football. I got one of those every year . . . and sweatsocks. All boys got sweatsocks for Christmas.

Dad was such a kabbitzer. When all the presents were opened and stockings were emptied mom would say it’s time to go back to bed. By then it was three A.M. Then dad would say “Wait a minute!” Didn’t Santa leave something else for Austin, for Richard, for Mary Sue, for Brian, and for Sheila? Mom would say, “Oh, yes, yes, I forgot.” Then the two of them would go down to the cellar and come up with the one present that they knew each of us wanted the most. I will never forget dad bringing up for me a four-speed Schwinn racer with handle brakes, just like my cousin had. Four-speeds, can you imagine that!

With all of us kiddoes spoiled to the core we ushered off back to bed. Only a few more hours left to sleep before we had to get up for the nine o’clock Christmas Mass. I don’t think any of us could sleep after that.

So many beautiful memories. You know, my parents didn’t have a car back then. We walked to Mass. Yes, we did, even when six and seven years-old, with my cousins and siblings. It was exactly one mile away. All the school children went to the nine o’clock and most of them walked. It was safe back then. The Mass was in Latin and we all followed it in our little pocket missals. I had a real missal, a daily missal, and do you know who taught me how to use it and put the colored liturgical ribbons in the right place? My best friend, the smart guy, who knew Santa Claus was my father. His name is Joe Storm and he is still my close friend. Playing Pop Warner football, the local paper dubbed him “60% Joe” because that is how many tackles the little guy made at middle linebacker. He was a grade behind me. He was a genius, scoring a near perfect score on his SAT college entrance exams. His father used to take us by car to daily Mass when we were in sixth and seventh grade. (Joe’s father is still living. He must be close to a hundred years-old.) That was after we had both walked at least a couple of miles running our newspaper routes. We got up every day in those years at five o’clock. That is when my father was picked up for work . . . after he pulled my big toe.

Merry Christmas Mom and Dad and Austin! I hope and pray that I will join you in the Bethlehem that never ends . . . someday!