Playing Santa

My grandfather Vespo smoked unfiltered Chesterfield cigarettes. And every Christmas Eve when my mother and her sisters were little and gathered with their Aunts, Uncles, and cousins, my grandfather would leave the gathering to walk down to the corner store to restock his nicotine supply.

Amazingly, year after year, when my grandfather was AWOL from the celebration, Santa would show up and hand out gifts. My grandfather without fail missed the entire event.  Santa’s arrival and my grandfather’s absence was never considered suspicious to any of his children or nieces or nephews. At no point did any child ever wonder what corner store might be open on Christmas eve for the expressed purpose of purchasing cigarettes. Nor did the children ever notice the uncanny resemblance in physicality or voice to Papa—or their Uncle Joe.

My brother Mark might be described as the “fun Dad” or the “fun Uncle”. He has always engaged his children and his nieces. He planned silly excursions with them and bought them wonderful gifts. And to that end he got it in his head that it would be his greatest pleasure to play Santa—like our grandfather had done.

And so he purchased a high quality Santa suit---deep red  velvet with a leather, not plastic belt. Santa’s beard was a realistic facsimile to white facial hair. Not even the man sitting in the chair at Macy’s on 34^th street could feign more realism.

And on a particular Christmas celebration, my brother transformed himself into Saint Nickolas himself. The children gathered unknowingly when a jolly old man with a sack full of presents bounded through the front door.

The children—aged 7, 4,3, and 1 at the time were cautious in his presence. And then Samantha, aged 3, said Where is Uncle Mark? And my nephew Andrew, aged 7, in his sweet soprano voice said Dad why are you dressed up like Santa?

It took a nanosecond for these four little kids to figure out what was going on.

And my mother and her sisters to this day claim they were too frightened of Santa to question his identity. They defend their lacking critical thinking skills as innocent belief--they believe that their  blind acceptance was a  better alternative to today’s generation of inquiring minds.

I disagree.

When Samantha and Andrew’s mind deduced and summarized all the Santa facts I giggled. It meant they were paying attention—even at the expensive of my brother’s disappointment. Because it didn’t mean they didn’t believe in Santa, it just meant they didn’t believe that Mark was Santa. 

And Grandpa Vespo smoked his Chesterfields until he was in his late seventies and the ophthalmologist urged him to quit. He had smoked for 60 some-odd years before giving up the habit cold turkey.

And I am sure somewhere in my brother’s attic is a well-preserved Santa suit along  with his dream of Christmas past--- a dream which surely will be transformed  the day his first grandchild is born---the day Christmas future becomes Christmas  present--- and the spirit of giving and belief renews itself for the next generation.