Friends, we are at ten days and counting until Christmas! At this point, Santa is already onto his second run-through of his lists, but I bet he does spot checks to stay abreast of last-minute good deeds or lapses in judgement. A stable elf has definitely done a check of the reindeers’ harnesses, and most of the manufacturing elves have been moved over to gift wrapping.

I hope you are similarly feeling in good shape about your holidays. I admit to feeling weirdly disconnected from Christmas this year. If you’re struggling with that a bit yourself, I suggest hitting it head-on with some good old-fashioned Christmas tv specials. Positive Christmas vibes feed on nostalgia, so give them a good dose by putting on Rudolph, Frosty, or the Peanuts gang.

But first, check out what’s behind our calendar door today. Rudi at Random Duck has a very interesting post about Frosty and its sequels and Rankin/Bass and corporate America’s entanglement with art for you to read. I’ll be following it up with a few classic holiday specials myself.

As you probably expected, behind today’s calendar door we have the conclusion of Dad’s story. If you missed yesterday’s post, start there first.

The Night I Subbed for Jolly Old St. Nicholas
(Part 2)

I kept Dickie Hill in my mind just as my sister kept Santa in her heart. I always thought that it could be special to play the Santa role to someone else. And it’s always that element of mystery — who was that bearded man? All of the important pieces in my life began to fall into place, albeit slowly. First, I got my driver’s license. A few years later I bought a car — a 1954 Mercury. I thought it was just the greatest car to drive. It was fun. During my last year in high school I got a job working at the American Trucklease and learned how to drive a stick (but just in first gear; the other gears came later. The Merc was an automatic trans. No problems.) And while working at the truck leasing/rental outlet I came into contact with companies that sold –- in bulk -– candy canes and popcorn balls.

Life moves on. I leave the Trucklease and a couple of jobs down the road I get a job working as a general laborer for the Bridgeport Brass. One of the people who gets a job about the same time is a guy named James. He gets a job running some kind of big machine that manufactures a brass product. Within a few months a big layoff comes and he loses his job. I get moved into a job learning how to run a Brown and Sharpe Screw machine, making the plugs that hold the air inside of your auto tire. James comes back to work at the Brass Company and we resume our friendship. He is married, and he and his wife have a two-year old boy, Jimmie. Dickie Hill comes back to life in my mind.

The next December I decide to go for it. I go to the stores that sold candy canes and popcorn balls. I order a big carton of each and hope that Jimmie likes candy and popcorn. By this time I gain one more brother who happens to be about two, although not until a couple of years after he was born. I don’t tip my Mom about the plan. I rent a Santa Claus suit and beard. Then comes Christmas Eve. My girlfriend at the time has a family function to which I am not invited, but I can pick her up later in the evening so the two of us can go to Christmas Eve services. You may be developing the same thoughts I was at the time. I need to get started early enough on Christmas Eve so the kids aren’t in bed asleep by the time I show up. Talk about mystery and suspense, eh?

I have found out where James and his family live, but my first stop while I’m waiting for time to go by is at the house of a family friend. I tell her my plans. She tells me that I need some make–up help. She proceeds to cut out eyebrow-size pieces of cotton batting. At one time you could buy little blue boxes of rolled cotton. Never thought of that, but my make-up person does. Also uses some of it to fix up the lame beard which accompanies the suit, and makes sure the string at the back of my head stays there. Change into my outfit that comes with make believe boot tops and a hat with a good sized tassel and a big black belt. I get dressed, hop into the Mercury which I’m now calling Dasher and proceed to drive across town to James’s house. Some people see Santa driving Dasher, toot their horns and wave. I turn on the interior light of the car and wave back. I get to James’s.

I have not told James I was coming or mentioned my plan to him. I ring the bell and I’m surmising that some people may be surprised to see a white Santa in a Black neighborhood at 7 o’clock. James answers the door. He has a strange look on his face, not one of recognition. I roar, “Ho. Ho. Ho. Merry Christmas. Is Jimmie still awake? Santa wants to wish him a Merry Christmas before the youngster has to go to bed for the night.” James still doesn’t recognize me, and is letting things roll along slowly while he tries to figure out what is going on. He lets me in the house and we climb the stairs. Jimmie shows up with his mom, who is quite surprised to find Santa calling this Christmas Eve.

“Merry Christmas!” I bellow while Jimmie’s eyes widen, his mouth drops open and he hides behind his mom. He says nothing.

“Jimmie, I’m surprised you are still awake and up. Be sure you’re asleep when I come back later so I can leave some presents. Come up and sit on my knee. Tell me, have you’ve been a good little boy and always obey your Mommy and Daddy?” He says nothing but slowly shakes his head up and down and sticks his thumb in his mouth.

I look at James who looks at me closely. I’m mentally checking my outfit to make sure nothing is slipping, nothing is showing. A look of recognition comes into his eyes and is quickly paired with the widest smile you could ever see. Me, I’m making sure that the tears in my eyes don’t begin to fall and I’m holding on to my share of the conversation with Jimmie. Mom, her face beginning to ease signals James to the kitchen doorway where a great smile adds to her face. I chat with Jimmie for another minute or so, gain his promise to get to bed and sleep as soon as I leave. I bid everyone goodnight and climb down the stairs to an awaiting Dasher. James follows me, that fantastic smile still running across his face.

“I couldn’t figure out who it was,” he says and taps my shoulder. With a roar of “Happy Christmas to All and to All a good night!” Dasher and I take our leave.

We drive across another part of town where I park up the block in front of the local firehouse, get out and wander down the hill a couple of houses. I roar a Christmas greeting and throw a popcorn ball at the door which slowly opens. My mom stands in the doorway and calls for my newest brother Frank to come see who is here. I am just SO afraid that the little ones might recognize me so I continue to roar my greetings and avoid approaching the darkish doorway. I am so nervous about blowing my cover that I want to hurry and get out. I shout to Frank to be sure to be asleep when I come back and I’ll be bringing him that something special that he is looking forward to. Hope I’m right. Wish loud Merry Christmases again. Toss in a couple more Ho. Ho. Ho’s. and leave. I hoped that Frankie felt the warmth, instead of my fear of discovery. Later, I learn that it turned out fine. Hey, anytime Santa shows up at your front door ….

Back to the car, interior light back on, wave to the horn tooters. I breathe easier. Maybe one more I think. But then again I wasn’t sure I knew any other little kids. I remember Dina, someone who had belonged to our church’s youth group with me. Dina had recently become a single parent mom and lived about a mile way. Dasher is soon on his way.

I get to Dina’s house where I discover that everyone other than Dina and her baby have headed to church for the Evening Worship. I whisper my Ho Ho Ho message to the baby and give Dina a Christmas hug. In return, I get a great kiss on the bearded cheek and a couple of spritz cookies. As I am leaving, I express surprise that everyone has already gone. She reminds me that the service would be starting in a half hour. My conscience reminds me that my girlfriend will be acting the role of Mary in the pageant and I decide I’d better get a move on.

My girl was surprised that I was so late; her family was happy to point out my lack of a timely arrival. But everything worked out. I got Mary to the make-believe Bethlehem stable on time for the service. Everyone exchanged good holiday greetings and I had time to change myself back into a regular person and Dasher back into a Mercury.

I still think about Dickie Hill and the night I got to play Santa. Can’t help smiling and occasionally shed a tear or two. Those candy canes and popcorn balls lasted for years.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Ho. Ho. Ho. Yep, I still got it.

Thanks for sharing this sweet story, Dad. I’d heard some of it over the years, but parts of it were new.

Last week, you got posts from my mom. Today and tomorrow, you get a story from my dad:

The Night I Subbed for Jolly Old St. Nicholas
(Part 1)

Back when I was still in high school, just not that extra year, an important event took place at our house (read: apartment in the housing project). Our house was visited by the one and only Santa Claus.

Only three of us were there at the time – Mom, my baby sister Dorothy (then known as Dolly) and yours truly, then know as Skip (or Skipper). Oddly enough, Dort, then Dolly, and I are the only two members of the family who were given nicknames – well, if you leave out Mom and Dad. I digress, but I would like to point out that having a nickname was sometimes a sore point for someone who really longed to be a Bobby or just plain Bob – but that would have been Dad, who never really complained about anything, never mind having the name Bob. And he did tack on my new name on the way home from the hospital when he said, “How’s my little Skipper today?” I was born in Bridgeport, CT, and my dad just over the town line in Stratford, and supposedly his family lived on a boat. Oops, digressed again.

One afternoon, in the apartment in the Village – Father Panik, if it matters or Yellow Mill at the time, in the interest of being complete and factual … It was not only near the Christmas holiday, but it was a weekday afternoon and I’m not sure why I wasn’t in school, other than to keep this story alive, when there came a knock on the door. I opened it and what to my surprise was a little old sleigh driver, so loudly and quick that I almost missed his jolly, “Ho, Ho, Ho! Where’s that little Dolly? (About age 2 at the time. I would have been 15 and you may recall that Harding, my alma mater, observed a split session, which explains my presence.)

“Where is she?” he asked again. In other times, Mom and I would have been have been quick with a joke or to light up your smoke, but we were both a little dumb-founded because Dolly was right there, eyes as big as saucers, mouth agape doing a little dance. But we had only sent Santa our letters and never included photos, which to my way of thinking would have made his job just a little easier, but explains why he failed to identify her. Further, it would have been almost a year since he last saw her. Mom and I courteously pointed her out.

“Well,” he exclaimed and he was a little loud about it. She didn’t say anything, eyes still bugged, mouth opened a little wider, but pretty silent, considering.

He continued: “Come sit on Santa’s lap and tell me what you would like me to bring you when I next come back.” Dolly was still in silent mode as Santa pulled out a kitchen chair, plopped down and easily lifted her onto his lap. She was still silent. Beside trying to think who was sitting in our kitchen chair, I was busy sending mind signals: “new car! … new baseball glove! … new record player! … RECORDS!” He spoke not a word to me, but went straight to his work.

“Would you like me to bring you a nice dolly of your own? Or some candy? Here, I have some candy canes for you and a couple of popcorn balls. You could hang these on the tree if you want.” Santa didn’t pause; he went straight to his work. No dialogue, but big smiles were exchanged between Santa and Dolly. Then, laying his finger aside of his nose, he spoke directly to her, “Well, I’ve got to get back to the North Pole. I just wanted you to know that I definitely will be here to visit you and the rest of the family on Christmas Eve. Now, I’ve got to run. The reindeer don’t like making day trips, and they want to get home. Come give me a big hug and make sure you stay a good little girl. She is a good little girl, isn’t she, Mom?”

Mom was a little flustered, but knew enough to take full advantage of this situation, “She’s usually pretty good, Santa, but she doesn’t always want to go to bed when she’s supposed to.” I grimaced a little, but I remembered my Mom ratted me out to my fourth-grade teacher who complained about my art work. Mom had agreed that my other sister, then in kindergarten, had done better drawings than I. And this was during the afternoon when everyone in class was present and listening. But, she was consistent. Ma. Come On.

“Well, Dolly, we can’t have that, can we?” I was busy sending thought messages – “New Glove. Some 45s?” I thought about telling him that I went to bed better than she, but Mom was giving me one of those looks.

“I want you to promise me that you will be a good little girl and go to bed when you’re supposed to.” Dolly remained silent, but nodded up and down and clutched her candy tightly behind her back. “Well, okay. But you be really good.”

And giving a nod, he rose and out the door he went. I couldn’t see the sleigh into which I guess he sprang, but I think I heard a whistle and then everything went quiet.

Dort didn’t cooperate with us. She was so excited and made sure to keep the candy and popcorn balls away from us. Mom and I just stared at each other. While my sister went to figure out how to hang a popcorn ball on a Christmas tree, Mom whispered in a stilted, quiet tone: “Do you know who that was?” she asked.

“No,” I half-whispered back. “Do you?” She just shook her head slowly and sat quietly while she replayed the events in her mind. I drew a blank; moms never do: What about Raffi? My best friend in high school was a shortish dark-haired guy who spoke with a moderate accent he picked up while growing up in Ponce, Puerto Rico. I’m sure he’d have played Santa if he thought of it first, but hey …

For the next week we thought about it and queried the other members of the family, who were rightfully miffed that they had missed out on one of life’s cool treats. And then Mom got the inkling. The bogus Santa was a close friend of my Uncle Billy. Hey, big family, lots of uncles and aunts, many just slightly older than I. Billy was one of the wayfarers who clandestinely spent time sharing life in our 4-room apartment. Actually, he was the one who later joined the Navy and brought back to that selfsame apartment nine of his closest buddies. Ah, those weren’t the days. So, the Santa who came to our house was none other than Dickie Hill. If you have never run across him, you missed out. That day, in itself was a nice part of life, but it’s not what I am writing about this wonderful Christmas season.

[To find out what my Dear Old Dad is writing about, you’ll have to stop back tomorrow!]

With my Christmas tree decorated, the next thing on my holiday to-do list is to get my Christmas cards out. The past few years I’ve been bad about sending them out before the holidays, although last year I did at least get them in a post box on Christmas Eve night.

This year, though, I’m determined that the folks in the U.S. should get theirs before Christmas and those overseas will hopefully get theirs by New Year’s.

The first step is to find all the cards. Yes, we have a problem.

Sure, some people buy just the number of cards they need each year. But not us. Some cards just fit certain segments of our lives (see the ski and bike cards). Some benefit charities we support (bookish literary cards). Others are sweet or funny or fun. And some, like the pop-up cards, are just marked down ridiculously after the holidays that I had a hard time passing them up.

And to be fair, a couple of these boxes contain singletons of a certain size, consolidated down for storage.

Next up are the addresses. Yes, mostly old-school, in my organizer, which this year, is actually back to also being my work notebook. Yes, pulling it out on the weekend gave me a bit of agita.

I like to decorate my cards, so I have a vast sticker collection (as do, I suspect, a number of my fellow Gen X’ers who grew up in a period where we traded stickers). There are some missing, but it’s possible I’ll find them tucked into a box of cards, or maybe in the hot mess that is my desk these days.

Finally, we’ve got the pens (red and green and a non-Christmassy color for the New Year’s cards to those who aren’t celebrating Christian holidays) and stamps (I can’t begin to tell you the hunt these led me on in the past week, when I put them all in “safe places” during the party cleanup frenzy.

Yes, that is a laptop writing desk, and yes it looks like the sort of thing that might have been bought in elementary school. I did. For the past four decades, it’s mostly only been used at Christmas when writing cards, but these days I also use it as a stable surface under my laptop for video calls or when the battery gets too hot. Either way, thanks, ten-year-old me.

Would you like a Christmas card, dear reader? If you aren’t already on my list, leave me a comment and I’ll email you for your street address.

Sorry for the late start, folks. I dozed off writing this last night, woke up to put myself to bed and found the laptop closed and put away, and assumed I’d finished it up.

Anyway, last night my friend Sarah and I took ourselves down to the Kennedy Center to see singer-songwriter Ingrid Michaelson perform Christmas songs with the National Symphony Orchestra. It was great fun!

The orchestra performed a few songs themselves to start the show and when we came back from intermission. And then the rest were Ingrid performing either holiday tunes or some of her other hits with them.

Apparently, every year, Ingrid puts on a show in New York City that the bartender at my local dive bar assures me is life-changing, so maybe some future Christmas season, I’ll head up for that.

But in the meantime, I thought I’d share some of the songs she performed (and a couple she didn’t, but that I’ve really liked over the years:

Today, we have another post from my mom, about the downtown Christmas shopping experience:

I grew up in southern Connecticut, so, as a kid, we had to travel in from the country to New Haven to shop. It was always a treat when we could go just to shop rather than to pick up needed parts for my father’s garage. And Christmas was just plain special with all the street decorations along and above the streets as well as on the New Haven Green.

There were two special department stores at that time, but the one that was most special was Shartenberg’s. It had an intriguing start when you parked your car. The parking garage adjacent to or part of Shartenberg’s was an automated elevator for you car. (Like the Carvana tv ads.) They would drive it in and up it would go to an empty slot. Mum would stop to let me watch the first couple of times, till she finally said you already know where it’s going! Nonetheless, still fascinating to see in the ’50s.

We would then go in the back door of the store into the lunch room. In those days, you looked to see who was almost done and you would stand behind the stool of that person. We always hoped to find a couple to get two stools, otherwise I would sit and mum would stand behind the person next to me. An added push perhaps? This was normal to do and no one thought twice of it. Imagine that today, someone hovering over your shoulder? Anyway, I would always get jello (red) with whipped cream … always a treat as jello was pure sugar, and never allowed at home.

Then we would go into the main part of the store. This was one of the tallest buildings in New Haven at the time … six floors with each floor devoted to different departments. After what seemed like forever we were allowed to the top floor … in that creaking elevator with the attendant opening and closing the gates till you got to … The Toy Department!!!!!!! (I’m sure the threat of being good was offered up beforehand so mum could get her shopping done.)

The top floor was always the beat up looking one that looked like half was used for storage the rest of the year, but at Christmas it expanded and became a Christmas wonderland. In one section was Santa, just as you see in the old Christmas movies with the lines meandering through the toy aisles. But there were two other special parts that you silently kept trying to get mum to move faster to get to for she still had toys to buy to send home to England. I’m sure there was a lot of jiggling that had nothing to do with the ladies room!!!! They had a “fishing pond” filled with wrapped presents tied with a ring. I’m sure mum had to pay for it, but I never noticed. You had a fishing pole … in those days a stick with a string and hook … and you fished for a present. I have absolutely no memory of any of these prizes, it was the joy of the hunt! But I do have a vague memory of being pushed aside one year by my brother when he wanted what I was after. Hmmmm.

And then … they had the train. I had never seen anything like this before. It didn’t go far, just in an odd meandering shaped oval around a fake ice rink as it was confined to a corner of the floor, but it had a Santa’s helper conducting and the individual cars to sit in. I remember anxiously waiting in line and then handing over my paper ticket. (Must have had one of those tickets for the fishing pond as well!) It didn’t get any better for a little kid. The rest of the year it sat behind a partition of some kind only to come back out every Christmas. You would try to catch of glimpse of it other times of the year, but that made it all the more exciting when you went and it was finally open once again.

Thanks, again, Mum! This sounds like such fun!