Posts of Christmas Past (Part I)

In the black and white photograph, I am 8 months old. I am looking up at a jolly old man with white hair and a beard.

I cannot tell him what I want him to leave me under the tree because I have not started talking. Now, I only wish I remember what thoughts were going through my head.

It was my very first Christmas. Santa Claus brought me red wagon.

He knew what I wanted. Always did.

By the next year, I am joined by my sister, Gay, on Santa’s lap. She is a baby. I am crying, ready to tear out out of there. Over the next few years, we are joined by my other sisters, Susie and Sally, and then finally by my brother, Charles. There were so many of you can’t even see Santa in some of the pictures – just part of his head or beard or arm.

The Santas changed from year to year as we moved around. Some were men who dressed as Santa Claus at the old Rich’s in downtown Atlanta. We went there almost every year to shop and ride the Pink Pig.

Others were just department store Santas who passed through our lives, stopping just long enough for us to have the permanent memory of a photograph with them.

Some are round and jolly. Some even had white hair and real beards. I do remember one had thick glasses with black frames. Some were men who took their job to heart. Others men just looking for a way to make a few extra bucks during the holidays.

They all meant something to us. One of the true joys of the season is written on the faces of children on Christmas morning.

I once read the three stages of a man’s life are:

1. He believes in Santa Claus.
2. He does not believe in Santa Claus.
3. He is Santa Claus.