In 1952 Santa came to Vinalhaven, to the church, as he did and still does every year, to separate the worthy from the unworthy. ‘Stubby’ Seawell and ‘Free Throw’ Buteau would be found worthy, as would all the girls except Lillian ‘Treetop’ Roberts. ‘Goober’ Pazaloma, who’d been chewing tobacco since the first grade, and ‘Shoal Water’ Wooster would certainly be found unworthy. ‘Shoal Water’, a third grader, regularly pushed me and other underclassmen off the merry go round, which, had OSHA ever seen it, would have resulted in the school district being shut down for operating an unauthorized instrument of torture, as opposed to an authorized instrument of torture like Mrs. Hildings, the second grade teacher who carried alleged miscreants, like me, by our lips to the front of the room. There we were made to stand with our noses in a little circle she had drawn on the blackboard just so high that we had to teeter, whimpering, on our tiptoes to accomplish her bidding.
I digress, back to Santa. We other boys and ‘Treetop’ foundered in those tricky waters where worthy and unworthy were not so distinct. “For we shall all stand before the judgment seat of Christ.” (Romans 14:10) simply lacked the heft of actually sitting in the judgment seat, in the lap no less, of one who knew for sure, not only when we were sleeping and when we were awake, but whether we’d been bad or good or worse, for goodness’ sake. This was, after all, the eighth annual church visitation from Santa in my own young life, and that was eight more times than I had even seen Christ, let alone sat in his lap.
Supper that night was, for me, like the last meal of a condemned man. My two younger brothers were nervous but excited, unaware, at this early stage, of their own sinful condition. I, on the other hand, was apprehensive and anxious. After pushing stuff around on my plate for half an hour it was time to go. The church was only a few hundred yards away and I could see, as soon as we left the house, that a big crowd had already gathered. Grown ups, some only barely, exchanged bemused and knowing glances as they carried infants, and led toddlers down the aisle toward the front of the church. This was foreign territory for most of these young parents, who occupied the back pews on those rare occasions, graduation, weddings and memorial services, when they came here at all.
We found a place on the aisle next to Billy Soderburg and his mother. Like a few others of my contemporaries, Billy had no father and when quizzed about this he said he was the product of an immaculate conception. On those occasions when he said that the rest of us nodded knowingly because we didn’t know what he was talking about and didn’t know what else to do but didn’t want to appear uninformed.
Across the aisle Albert Nelson caught my eye and flashed from his jacket pocket, as he’d been doing for several weeks, a little glass ball in which reposed a female figure whose skirt, when the globe was inverted and snow flakes descended, blew up a little like Marilyn Monroe’s in Some Like it Hot. Albert employed a condescending snicker each time he exposed this little figurine in a manner not unlike that which characterized Billy’s attitude when he explained his parentage and so most of the rest of us, just as mystified about the appeal of billowing skirts as we were by the concept of conception, nodded, as before, in compromising acquiescence.
At 5:30, we were stilled, except for a few babies who were alarmed at the silence, by the distant sound of approaching sleigh bells. I again recognized them as the very same bells I’d heard at my own house for as many Christmas Eves as I could remember. I could count on them materializing on my roof not long after. Fighting exhaustion, I began to doze off. In a moment a rich baritone chortling “ho ho ho & Merry Christmas” (with a curious vibrato, not unlike a sheep, attending the r’s) ascended the steps and all eyes were toward the back of the church.
Around the corner he came!
In a shiny red suit with white fur collar, big red cheeks, black boots and huge mittens, he was enormous, pretty much what we’d expect from someone who knew everything about everything we did and everything about everything we thought and from whom we could keep nothing. He strode down the aisle turning right and left to tousle a youngster’s hair and to chuckle “ho ho ho” and to wish his quivering Merrrrrry Christmas and when he got to Albert and patted him on the head I was afraid, much more afraid than was Albert that he would stop and say “Young master Nelson, have you been good this year? Do you not have a little female figure in your pocket whose skirt is billowing about provocatively?” But he didn’t and when his attention returned to my side of the aisle he didn’t say anything to Billy either, about his being immaculately concepted.
When he reached the front of the church the minister rose from his front row chair, and stood next to Santa, who’d turned to face us with his hands on his hips. He asked Santa silly questions about whether he’d had a pleasant sleigh ride down from the North Pole and then he invited him to get on with it. He told Santa that all the names of all the kids had been put in a hat and, as their names were called, they could all be expected to trot down front, climb up in his lap and tell them what they’d like to have for Christmas. He didn’t say anything about subjecting ourselves to the inquisition we knew was a prerequisite to telling Santa what we’d like to have for Christmas. Treetop’s was the first name called and she kind of set the tone for the evening when she responded to Santa’s inquiring “Lillian, have you been good this year?” by answering “Depends on who you ask.” When Albert was asked the same question I was very badly tempted to say, “Look in his pocket” but resisted easily when I considered the consequences.
I was called about halfway through the evening and headed warily down the aisle. Santa reached down and scooped me up and settled me on his lap.
“So, Phil, have you been a good little boy this year?”
“I guess so.”
“What about telling the truth. Have you told the truth this year?”
“I guess so.”
“Are you sure?”
“I guess so.”
“Are you really sure? Is there anything you’d like to say to Santa?”
“You smell just like my Grandpa.”