Since I was born in 1946, I did not see a television until I was in third or fourth grade. Back then, it was relatively easy for parents to pretend Santa Claus existed, especially since we were living in Fort Richardson, Alaska, at the time. On Saturday mornings, we would go down to the basement and sit around the radio while we listened to children’s shows, such as THE TEDDY BEAR’S PICNIC.

We had no mall Santas. We had no malls. Parents didn’t have to explain why the Santa at Penney’s smelled like cigarettes and had gray hair while the one at Sears—at the other end of the mall—smelled like Old Spice and had white hair.

We had the Army Post Exchange. Period. Even then, we children never got to go shopping with Mother. There were seven children at that time, and the twin boys were still in diapers. Mother wisely chose to go the store without any children in tow. She went alone and stayed a long time.

When Christmas came around, all the girls in the family received dolls. I was sure I would receive an excellent, outstanding doll because I had tried to be extra special good for Santa. My twin and I, however, received very plain dolls. So did two other sisters. Very plain dolls.

Our younger sister received one that wet and talked.

I knew my twin and I were good girls, at least as good as our younger sister. Santa didn’t love us as much, apparently. I tried to figure out why.

That night, after my bedtime prayers, I asked Santa what I was doing wrong. I would just have to try harder to be a good girl, I thought, so Santa would love me more. I had a whole year to convince him.

Then when we got back to school after Christmas break, I found out about all the goodies the Mean Girl received. She got a new dress. And new ice skates. And a small motion picture machine that projected Mickey Mouse movies on the wall. All I got was a doll that didn’t even wet, much less talk. Santa loved her more than me.

A few days later, my mother caught me in a lie. Mother was a good old farm girl, who had ridden to town in a buggy pulled by horses when she was young. She believed in corporal punishment. Lots of people did, back in the fifties.

When she caught me in that lie, she used a switch on my legs until I was doing the ouch-ouch-ouch dance. I know people today are appalled when they hear of such a thing happening, but it was more accepted back then. “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” was often quoted by my devout mother.

It was only a couple of days later that I caught my mother in a lie. I heard her say into the phone, “I’m sorry, but we can’t come over after all. Marilyn is sick.”

I am? I don’t feel sick. Maybe I’m sick and don’t know it. No, I haven’t been to the doctor since we moved to Alaska… Mother told a lie! I don’t believe it.

 That very afternoon, I found out there was no Santa Claus. The Mean Girl told me. At first I refused to believe it, but my older sister told me the truth.

No Santa Claus? They had been lying to us all these years? Not just lying. Oh, no. Blackmail and bribery went along with it.

“You’d better stop doing that. Santa Claus will bring you coal.”

“If you don’t help clear the table, Santa Claus won’t bring you anything.”

I’m sure you have heard similar statements on the days–if not weeks–before Christmas.

Ever since that day, the jolly old elf makes me want to punch him out. Or at least take a switch to his legs.

I also worry about what little children think who live with their parents in cars or under bridges. Do their parents tell them that Santa forgot them or just that he could not find their house?

When my children were young, I told them right up front that Santa Claus did not bring their presents. Call me mean. Call me resentful. Call me bitter. I can take it.

I told them about the legendary Santa Claus.

Nicholas, who lived around 280 A.D. in what is now Turkey, became St. Nicholas because of his legendary kindness. History claims that he gave away the wealth he inherited. He also traveled around, helping the poor and sick. One popular tale states that he gave money to a father of three girls to keep him from having to sell them into slavery.

I found out later that on St. Nicholas day, December 6, families who follow the tradition present gifts to their children in his honor. I had to add the part about December 6 when my first-grader came home, hands on hips, and told me that many students in her class received a present from St. Nicholas that morning when they sat down to breakfast. In New Braunfels, a town with a strong German heritage, a St. Nicholas present was quite common. I never forgot another St. Nicholas Day.

When I originally told my children about St. Nicholas, I also told them to never tell other children who still believed in Santa that he was just an old tradition. Unfortunately, my son told all the children in his day care center that Santa was dead and that he had died long ago.

I still cringe when I remember the irate phone call from the day care director, followed by phone calls from the parents. I think they wanted to take a switch to my legs.

My daughter now has two children, and the first-grader still believes in Santa Claus. The fourth-grader now believes in Grandma, which is fine with me.

In the eighties, Wayne and I and our two children were living in New Braunfels, Texas. It was August, and I had put the children in day care so I could make preparations to start the school year teaching at the high school. I was still at home, but I was planning to go to the high school in a few minutes. Wayne was already there that day since summer band practices had already started and, like most high school band directors, he always put in sixteen-hour days every August.

Paul, one of Wayne’s private lesson teachers, called me at home and said, “Wayne’s fallen, and you need to come up here.”

“Well, tell him to get up,” I said, before realizing that this must be more than a mere tumble.

I drove to the school, which was only five minutes from our house. I saw the ambulance as soon as I got to the asphalt parking lot, which also served as the band practice field. Beside the ambulance stood the track timing tower. Since the band did not have a tower for the directors to watch band practice from high up, they hooked a chain to the tower and dragged it back and forth, as needed, from the track to the band practice field and back.

Beside the ambulance stood the superintendent and the principal and Paul.

“He fell off that?” I asked Paul.

“From the top,” he said. “Face first. Two band parents and he were hooking a chain to the tower so they could drag it back to the track. He was bending over the edge when a weld snapped, and he went over.”

The superintendent said, “You should go knock on the door of the ambulance and ask them how he’s doing.”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t want the EMTs distracted in any way. I want them to concentrate on Wayne.”

As we waited and waited, I thought about what was probably going on inside the ambulance. I had watched enough TV shows to know that they would always stabilize patients before transporting them. It seemed like 15 minutes or more before the ambulance finally pulled away. I drove behind it, and the two administrators followed me in another car.

At the emergency room, I gave my name and sat down to wait. The superintendent and principal waited a couple of hours with me before telling me to call them as soon as I heard something. Then I was alone.

After some time, the doctor came out and said, “He has a broken arm, and his four front teeth were knocked out. He’s stable now, but he’s holding his teeth in with gauze. As soon as we release him, you can take him to his dentist. We called Dr. Willard, and he’s expecting you. We’ll call him again when you leave here. You can go back and see him now.”

When I bent over the bed and saw Wayne’s battered face, I realized that I was so close to tears that if I said anything kind, I would lose it. I can cry for hours once I get started. Red eyes, runny nose, can’t catch my breath. You get the picture.

So when he opened his eyes, I smiled down at him and asked, “Well, did you try to fly?”

Wayne had a great sense of humor. He chuckled and said, “I tried.”

At least I think that’s what he said. It’s hard to talk when you are holding your four front teeth in with a piece of gauze.

Wayne’s assistant director, Mike, hurried in.

“Wayne, I heard what happened,” he said. “What should I do about band practice tonight?”

“I’m going to try to make it,” he said, through the gauze.

Up until that point, I had been a rock of fortitude. The following week, the principal even commented on how calm I had been. “You acted like it happened every day,” were his words.

Well, he did not see me when Wayne said that he was planning to go to band practice that night.

I went over to the doctor, who was putting a cast on someone’s arm in the next curtained-off examination area. I was almost incoherent as I said, “I want you to go in there and tell him he is absolutely not allowed to go to band practice tonight.” I think I was screeching.

The doctor looked up at me and said, “Don’t worry. After the dentist finishes the four root canals, your husband is not going to want to go anywhere.”

I don’t know what Mike did about band practice that night, but I know Wayne was not there.

After the doctor dismissed Wayne, I took him to the dentist. When Dr. Willard came out to guide Wayne to the treatment room, I said, “I’ll go home and get you a dry shirt.” I didn’t want him to come back out into the waiting room wearing a bloody one. If any children were there then, they might run out screaming.

When I returned to the dentist’s office, I sat in a chair. About an  hour later, Dr. Willard came out and said, “We think we saved the teeth. Time will tell. I’ll bring Wayne out in a few minutes, and you can take him home.”

I forgot to give Dr. Willard the clean shirt. It came in handy because, for the first time that day, I cried. I sobbed. I was really noisy. I was glad the receptionist had called the other patients and told them not to come in, so no one saw me crying in the waiting room.

The receptionist walked over and handed me a box of tissues. I handed her the shirt, and she headed back toward the treatment room.

Dr. Willard and the dental hygienist helped me get Wayne to the car. As we headed home, he said, “This shirt’s wet.”

“Sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t have a tissue.”

Not long after that, one of the band parents, who was a welder, made a band tower so they would not have to drag the track tower back and forth.

Weeks later, his teeth were fine, the bruises went away, the cast was off his arm, but the bloody stain on the asphalt practice field stayed for months, even after the rains came.

That night was the only band practice Wayne ever missed. The next day he was back, broken arm, loose teeth and all.

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