With just three weeks left to shop for all those important Christmas gifts, there’s no need to worry. You can now mark me off your list.
Last week I received the one gift that I’d been wishing for all my life. Yep, yours truly got to meet the man himself. I got to meet the real Santa!
The Wife and I had gone to the Fox Theater in downtown Atlanta to see a Christmas concert by Mannheim Steamroller. We arrived a little early, made our way to our seats, but didn’t stay seated long.
I must admit, even I didn’t recognize him at first, but in my defense, he was sitting two rows in front of us with his back turned. It was only when he stood to let someone slip past that he turned, and I saw the twinkle in his eye. It was Santa, and he was standing just 3 feet in front of us!
I jumped to my feet and shouted, “Santa! It’s Santa Claus!” I spent the next 10 minutes talking to the great man.
“Being Santa must be the best thing ever. Come Christmas Day, I bet you put your feet up, sip hot cocoa, and relax.”
Santa replied, “No rest for Santa, not even on Christmas Day. I visit three hospitals where the elderly are even more excited to see me than the children. After all, they’ve been believing for a whole lot longer.”
The lights dimmed, the concert started, and reluctantly, I had to take my seat.
The music of the season sounded us for the next hour, but all I could think about was the man sitting one row up.
At intermission, the lights came back up and as everyone passed me going up the aisle, I got their attention, pointed, and exclaimed, “There’s Santa.”
Santa stood and shook hands with a few of those who passed by.
Then he turned to me and said, “I’ve just spent the last six hours holding over 400 children on my lap. And do you know you’ve been the most excited to see me?”
I jumped to my feet, threw my arms up towards the Fox’s famous ceiling dotted with twinkling stars and shouted, “Of course, I’m excited! You’re Santa!”
Later, The Wife told me my display got half the audience looking our way, but I knew differently. It was the presence of Santa that caused all the head-turning.
Just as I thought the evening couldn’t get any better – it did. Santa asked, “Would you and your wife like to get a picture?”
I answered, “Of course! Who wouldn’t want a picture with Santa?!”
Our picture with Santa, taken by his daughter no less, started a long line of folks, mostly my age, who also wanted to have their picture taken with the famous man from the North Pole.
A few even dragged their reluctant teenagers over to have a family picture taken with the man dressed in a white shirt and red vest outfitted with shiny brass buttons.
Date night with The Wife, great Christmas music and a picture with Santa certainly made the evening one to remember.
This year, like every year, you can go to most any mall across this country and find someone dressed as jolly Old Saint Nick. Parades down Main Street will also feature the famous giver of gifts with his hearty, “Ho, ho, ho.” Tug on those white beards all you want, but it won’t change the facts. The Wife and I met the real Santa at the Fox.
Now how do I know the man we met at the theater that night was indeed the one and only true Santa?
First, he looked just like he does on a Coca Cola can, in the movies and in Norman Rockwell’s famous picture from the Saturday Evening Post.
Second, Santa gave me his business card. Third, it had his phone number on it.
Yes, I have Santa’s phone number. No, I can’t give it to you. Doing so would surely get me on his naughty list, a list I haven’t been on since I lived at 110 Flamingo St.
When I was 6 years old, I snuck downstairs on Christmas Eve and carefully opened all of my presents.
Then, just as carefully, I rewrapped them. Not only did it spoil the surprise on Christmas Day, but also for the following Christmas.
At age 7, I again snuck downstairs on Christmas Eve and opened all the boxes that were mine. Only this time instead of finding gifts, I found nothing. All the boxes were empty – except one.
That small box had a lump of coal and a handwritten note from Santa. The note read, “Don’t get on the naughty list. Your parents know when you do something bad and so does Santa.”
With tears streaming down my face, I rewrapped all the presents while talking to an empty room. I told Santa I was truly sorry for what I had done.
I didn’t know Santa was listening, or how he had time to visit us again, but on Christmas day all my empty boxes had been filled with toys. Since the move from Flamingo Street, the lump of coal has long been lost, but the lesson of that day never will be.
[Rick Ryckeley, who lives in Senoia, served as a firefighter for more than two decades and has been a weekly columnist since 2001. His email is [email protected]. His books are available at www.RickRyckeley.com.]
