Education and Imagination; Santa Claus, Every Four-Year-Old’s Main Man

Some may question truth-telling when it comes to children. But there is one time, very early on in a child’s life, when stretching the truth a little just might make a child’s life more magical.

When I think back to my childhood Christmases, back when gas was some twenty-odd cents a gallon and a house with a television set was the exception (at least in our neck of the woods), my thoughts always turn to every four-year-old’s main man, Santa Claus.

Santa, One Amazing Man
From the very first time I heard the story of the kind old man with the white beard flying in a sleigh pulled by nine reindeer (one of which possessed a nose resembling a light bulb) I was enthralled. Ever since that first memory and for every Christmas thereafter, the man who climbed down eight-inch square chimneys and left presents for everyone (even your worst enemy), that snowy day and the jolly old man have been synonymous.

Yes, Christmas is about the birth of Christ and giving. It’s about families and presents, snow and roasting chestnuts, and many, many more things. But thanks to my ever imaginative Dad and my own fertile imagination, it was always Santa Claus that made the day so enchanting for me.

Childhood Memories
When I was but three or four and my brother two years older, we awoke one Christmas Eve to hear a loud voice singing Christmas carols downstairs.

“Who’s that, Jim?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s go see.”

Filled with excitement, we climbed from our beds, took each other’s hands and crept from our darkened room. Noiselessly we slid down the faintly lighted stairs, sliding to a stop at the bottom step.

“Jingle bells. Jingle bells.”

We peered around the bookcase into the living room. There in the multi-colored light of the Christmas tree we saw the red coat. He was bent over, his back to us, placing presents beneath the tree.

Our hearts pounding, we watched him take gifts from a stack on the chair and place them under the tree. Wanting to get a better look, I slid closer to the edge of the stairs. In my excitement, I slid too far. I fell over the edge, my knees cracking loudly upon the hardwood floor.

Sheepishly I stood up to explain my situation to Santa.

“I - ah…ah…”

“What have we here?” he bellowed without turning around. “Spies? Santa doesn’t leave presents for spies!”

I turned to look at Jim but he was already gone. Frantically I ran up the stairs and into our room. On the other side of the room Jim landed on his bed in a dead run sending it rolling across the floor and crashing into the wall.

“Ho, ho, ho,” came the voice from downstairs. Then, “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way.”

Firmly convinced of his existence, it was a couple of years later that I lay on my bed Christmas Eve, sleepless, my thoughts jumping from Santa to the joyous expectation of the model racing kit I’d asked him to bring.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a thump on the roof. Then another, and another, only louder; then the sounds of something heavy dragging across the shingles.

“Hey, Jim,” I whispered. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah. Shut up and listen.”

Next to the chimney running right through our room we heard a voice.

“Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas!”

Remembering the admonishing we had received before, we remained in our beds, listening like our mother always wanted us to but never did. Downstairs we could hear the rustling of wrapping paper.

“How come he ain’t singing, Jim?” I asked.

“Will you just shut up?”

Downstairs the rustling and footsteps came to a stop. Everything was silent. Breathless, we waited.

Suddenly the voice came from the chimney area again.

“Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.”

The thumps came again, then the scraping once more.

When all was silent, I ran to the window.

“Stupid,” Jim said. “He went off the other end of the house.”

“No – I can see him!” I shouted. “Up by the moon.”

My brother jumped from his bed, sending it crashing into the wall once more.

“Where?”

“There!” I pointed.

“Geez,” Jim nodded. “Right by the moon.”

An Active Imagination Is a Wonderful Thing
Looking back now, I recognize some of the pranks my father engineered, pranks perpetuating the myth of ‘the greatest man never to have existed’. They still make me smile. But to this day I have to admit I don’t truly know how much was my father and how much was my active imagination (he insists we imagined the roof top sounds or perhaps there was some snow and ice sliding off the roof that night). Whatever the case may be, I applaud his efforts.

And for all you parents out there, it’s your turn.

Cultivating such an active imagination means running to the window Christmas Eve and crying out, “Come quick. I see Santa flying by!” Your efforts will grow multi-fold as your child’s imagination takes over.

Because they will run to the window and when you pick them up to look through the glass they will see Santa up by the moon because they will want to see him. Then later, when they go to bed, you can let the real fun begin, especially if you have a chimney near their bedroom.

And when the night is over, yet another child will be convinced of the story of the kind old man from the North Pole who flies in a sleigh pulled by nine reindeer and climbs down eight-inch square chimneys to leave presents for everyone, even your worst enemy.

They will love every minute of it.

And so will you.