On a beautiful coming-of-winter day, a boy gets bundled up to see a celebrity who’s even bigger than Elvis — the REAL Santa!
by Ira David Wood III
It was a beautiful coming-of-winter morning long ago, a time when we believed in things. It was a Saturday, already a special day in Enfield because we didn’t have school.
This Saturday, however, was guaranteed to be head and heels above all the rest. We were expecting a visit from a bona fide star!
We’d had famous visitors before. The Goat Man, for instance: an eccentric old fellow named Ches McCartney who looked like Gabby Hayes’s older brother. He drove an iron-wheeled caravan of 30 goats around the United States and had visited Enfield once. That was a pretty big deal.
But the person visiting our town today — though no one dared say it above a whisper — was even bigger than Elvis!
It was the one and only Santa Claus. That’s right — St. Nicholas, Sinterklaas, Père Noël, Babbo Natale, Kris Kringle, jolly old St. Nick. And I wasn’t just going to see him; I was going to meet him, sit next to him and even whisper in his ear.
I knew that Santa Claus had helpers, thousands and thousands of them. Most were pretty good imitations. Others… well, at least they were wise enough to hang on to their day jobs.
But on this cold and breathless morning, the real Santa Claus had chosen to visit our little town in Halifax County. He was traveling all the way from the North Pole to find out what we wanted him to bring us on Christmas Eve, which was just a few agonizing weeks away.
I could hardly contain myself with the joyous thought.
There was an exhilarating chill in the air, as if the very atmosphere had become electrified. Santa’s visit would take place in the late morning, once the early December sun had time to warm the day just a bit more.
That left just enough time for a hurried breakfast of toast, homemade jam and hot oatmeal (it stuck to your ribs on wintry days). Our parents bundled my younger sister and me up in wool coats, hooded parkas and cedar-scented flannel scarves and hustled us into the family car for the short ride downtown.
Normally, this drive would take only five or six minutes at the most. This morning, it seemed to drag on for an eternity. Our much-anticipated destination was a vacant lot downtown, between the police station and fire department. Once there, we scrambled out of our Ford station wagon into the chilly air, joining the swelling ranks of children spilling out of automobiles parked along Main Street.
Forty-five minutes passed in agony. I lost count of how many times I shuffled my feet and asked our parents, “How much longer?” But rather than act annoyed, their smiles only became broader.
Home-movie cameras whirled and Kodak cameras clicked. This was a photo-op bonanza for Mom and Dad. “Look this way and smile!” they called out. But I was too busy craning my neck for a clear view of the street that led into town from Highway 301. I wanted to be the first to catch the first glimpse of red.
Red, the color of the season. The color of Santa’s wondrous suit and cap, trimmed in white fur. And the color of the huge hook-and-ladder fire truck he’d be arriving on. (That, by the way, was one of the reasons I knew we were going to see the real Santa Claus: those trucks never came out of the fire department’s garage unless there was an emergency… or because Santa was coming to town.)
Doubt began to creep in. Maybe something had happened. Perhaps he wouldn’t come. Santa was so extremely busy this season, and our town was a relatively small one, after all.
But then, suddenly, the wail of a distant siren shattered the hum of young voices. A reverent silence fell upon the crowd like a load of hardened fruit cakes. Hundreds of young eyes grew bigger than saucers. Necks stretched, jaws sagged in anticipation. And then, in the breathless quiet that seemed to engulf the entire world… I saw him!
Santa was perched high up on the back of that huge red fire truck, resplendent in his fur-trimmed garb, arms upraised in a gesture of joyous greeting. His smile, even from a distance, brightened the gray hues of that winter morning.
Harold Burrows, the fire chief, grinned and waved from the vehicle’s driver seat, but we hardly noticed. All young eyes in the crowd were riveted on the man in the wondrous red suit, who continued to wave at us as the fire truck grew closer.
I held my breath as the hushed crowd reverently parted to allow the fire truck to lumber into the gravel yard. It came to a gentle stop.
That’s when my breath caught in my throat as I heard the familiar laugh — “Ho, ho, ho!” — and that warm, resonant voice boomed out a “Merry Christmas!”
As if on cue, an endless line of children began to form. One by one, the town’s volunteer firemen lifted us up to sit next to Santa, high on that shiny fire truck.
Santa took his time to listen to each child, leaning his ear close to receive every whispered word.
When it was my turn, I reeled off my list, at the top of which was an Official Winchester Saddle Gun that would load and eject plastic cartridges. When I was finished, Santa reached into his huge cloth sack and withdrew a small net stocking filled with hard Christmas candy. With a twinkle in his eye, he placed it into my trembling hands.
After hundreds of camera shutters had clicked and every soft wish had been shared, that huge fire truck’s engine turned over several times, and I knew:
it was time for him to go.
It was a sad moment, but a brief one. I knew Santa would be back in a few weeks, only I wouldn’t see him then. He would come while my sister and I were fast asleep.
Standing beside my beaming parents, I stoically waved goodbye. I listened to the fading “Ho, ho, ho!”s. The huge red fire truck, its siren still wailing, rounded a corner and disappeared from view.
Later that night, tucked safe in my warm bed, I replayed every minute of that magical day — especially the moment when Santa Claus looked right into my eyes, smiled and called my name! Out of almost four million people born in 1947, he remembered my name!
It was a moment I knew would live in my memory forever. And so it has.
This article originally appeared in the December 2024 issue of WALTER magazine.
