OPINION: Santa hasn't 'diminished' for the nice list
Dec. 23—A few years ago, a former columnist of ours wrote about how belief in Santa makes him real, and there's something to that philosophy. Pretending to believe has its advantages, too — along with figuring out a justification for that pretense.
As a child, my son calmly explained to the skeptics among his peers how he knew Santa was real, and he did so from a Catholic standpoint. St. Nicholas, after all, had been recognized as a saint by the church since time out of mind. Sure, the actual fellow had been dead for centuries, but like all saints, he was accorded a place among the heavenly hierarchy. So if one could ask for intercessory help through prayer from St. Joseph, St. Anthony, or Mary, and expect results, why not St. Nicholas?
That philosophy worked surprisingly well with Protestant kids who scoffed at what they believed to be the sacrilegious Catholic "worship" of saints. Cole would ask if they believed in intercessory prayer — for instance, when a congregation is asked to implore God on behalf of everyone on the "prayer list." If God would listen to an ordinary living human being, then he'd probably hear the appeals of exemplary long-dead humans who have already earned seats at the banquet table. And logic suggests those sainted folks can overhear invocations aimed at God from the earthly plane, and thereby can throw in their two-cents' worth.
OK, that's a little deep — especially with the focus some evangelicals have regarding the fictitious "War on Christmas." But it makes sense — and there's nothing wrong with hedging your bets. And being cynical and nosy from an early age, I wanted the same proof of Santa's existence that I now demand before maligning someone in print.
One year, my sister and I conspired to confront the jolly old elf. We lay awake until 2 a.m., when we heard the front door creak open, and someone shuffle into the living room. Once we detected the crinkly sound of wrapping paper, we tiptoed down the dark hallway, and when we were about halfway there, we heard a flurry of activity, and someone quickly went out the front door. The tree lights were on, and we could see telltale shapes under the tree, indicating Santa had begun his work — and had been rudely interrupted.
That's when we detected low voices coming from our parents' bedroom, and footsteps coming down the hall. I quickly shoved my sister into the coat closet, and as I shut the door, I heard a muffled shriek. Two of her fingers were jutting from the doorjamb. As I cracked opened the door, the restrained wail abruptly halted, and the fingers withdrew into the recesses of the closet. We waited until the snoopy parent retreated to the master bedroom, then ran back to our own room. Whoever it was, it wasn't our parents.
There was other evidence, too. Maybe a year or two earlier, Grandma Poindexter told us Santa had dropped off a few extra presents at her house. He always seemed to do that if we happened to be visiting over the holidays. Grandma showed us how some of the shingles on the roof had been chipped by hooves of reindeer who gave no thought to whether the homeowners insurance would cover the damage. Then, she pointed to a pile of feces on the lawn and sagely identified it as "reindeer doodoo." I felt she had overplayed her hand, because the fresh coils looked an awful lot like the poop produced by my uncle's Weimaraner.
Another year, my sister insisted she kept hearing sleigh bells. Funny thing was, I heard the bells as well — intermittently, for five or 10 seconds at a time. I didn't think much more about it until I heard the same bells Christmas night. I knew Santa would have been back at the North Pole by then, and besides, the jingling seemed to be coming from one of the master bedroom windows, rather than the roof. When I went to the window to investigate, I could barely make out our German shepherd, curled up in the hole she had dug outside my parents' bedroom for her nightly repose. She was lifting a hind leg to briskly scratch around her collar, and the rabies tag striking the buckle was making the noise.
I had other questions. I didn't understand why Santa qualified as an elf, yet the "helpers" in his workshop were so small and waifish-looking, with pointy ears, whereas Santa himself was the size of a regular human — and a rather fat one, at that. And Mrs. Claus seemed to be normal-sized as well, if a little more portly than the usual grandmothers of my childhood. Neither of the Clauses seemed to have Spockish ears, and the tiny elves didn't sport beards.
After I read J.R.R. Tolkien when I was 10 or 12, I understood. The elves in Tolkien lore are the size of humans, albeit a bit taller, less robust, and more physically attractive. The ear shape was an implication; they were "more pointed and leaf-shaped" than human ears. Elves are also addressed in the more apocryphal Tolkien tests — meaning outside the Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit canon, and yes, I have them all. Tolkien ties his elves into the modern image — the kind seen on the Keebler cookie packages — and explains that, over time, they "shrink." They are small and translucent, apparently, so most humans today cannot see them. LOTR fans will recall that in "The Fellowship of the Ring," Galadriel mentions that she "passed the test" — meaning she rejected the One Ring — and will now "diminish and remain Galadriel."
That's enough geek for one day.
But suffice it to say, Santa isn't one of the elves who "diminished." He's had to hang about all these years, delivering gifts to good girls and boys. And here's hoping that you'll all be on the "nice" list this year, and that Santa won't get stuck in your chimney. For anyone who has ever looked up a chimney from the fireplace, that brings up another question. ...
