On Santa and Being Good

Hello MomCheck Blog readers! New poster here! I'm the Be Good Mom. And while yes, E.T. comes immediately to my mind, too, when I hear "Be Good," this blog is not about awesome 80's movies (though that would make a great blog topic). I'll be blogging about charity, philanthropy, random acts of kindness, and the like. Pretty much All Things Good For Your Soul.

I have been mulling over how best to start off this blog. A plea for help with a particular charity? An opinion on the State of the Charitable Nation? If my goal is to inspire you to Be Good, then perhaps I should start with my story, so you can get a sense for how I came to Be Good. (And please note, I will probably never post this long of an entry again, but this story deserves telling with no editing.)

My story really begins with my family – a mom and dad both dedicated to Being Good, although neither would characterize themselves this way. It was just second-nature. Travel back with me to the 1970’s. My father was a fireman and a painter. A fireman’s schedule is usually something like 2 days on, 1 day off, 3 days on, 2 days off, etc. In between on-duty days, my father painted race cars in his own shop. And during the winter, he was Santa Claus.

Back then, Toys for Tots was generally run by local fire stations, and in my town, this was my father’s. At the beginning of November every year, he shut down his paint shop and turned it into the North Pole. The days were spent hauling and sorting all the donations. I had 3 sisters, and this was most definitely a family event. We were responsible for lining up cardboard boxes and taping family names to them, and then hunting through the mounds of donations to find toys that matched the wish lists. When we received cash donations, we made special trips to different stores to buy brand new toys (the best!). Each of us was the “expert” on our own age levels and we gave opinions on what toys to buy. About two weeks from Christmas, my father would start to deliver the boxes to the families. Every night, he’d put on his Santa suit, load up the back of his truck, and set off into the night. He’d return home happy and sad at the same time. I never understood it. That is, until the year I put my foot down as an official spoiled brat and learned the lesson that set me off on my life’s path.

I don’t even remember now exactly what it was, some type of doll I really want. I remember I am 7. As we are sorting one night, I am overcome with a sense of entitlement and tell my father I want the doll. There is a big mountain of them, shiny and new, waiting to be sorted into the boxes, and I thought it would be okay to take one. My father explains in that adult way about how it’s for the less fortunate, and all that other stuff I refused to hear. I am a petulant, spoiled little brat about it. So my father says, “Fine. You can have the doll. But on one condition: You have to help me deliver the toys.” Fantastic! No problem! I work doubly hard the rest of that day and all the rest of the days leading up to the first delivery night. I could hardly wait for my doll, which I truly believe I deserve for sacrificing my time helping.

The night comes. I stand by impatiently as my father consults his lists and maps (no MapQuest back then!) to determine which boxes to load up and which route to take.

Before I go further, I need to talk a second about these boxes I keep referencing. These awful, sad cardboard boxes. It’s just a moving box, with an open top, and on the side is a piece of paper with magic marker saying something like, “Smith – Boy 8, Girl 7”. No first names. Sometimes a few wish list items have been provided, but usually not. And inside the box are an assortment of used toys and clothing, and at least one new toy for each child. No wrapping, nothing festive. The only thing Christmasy about the boxes were the candy canes we dropped in at the very last. This box pretty much represents Christmas in its entirety for the recipient family. Something that to this day still makes me incredibly sad.

The truck is loaded, the heater is going, Santa’s dressed, and me in a little elf hat. To this day, I still don’t know if my father planned it, or if it just happened (and if he were still alive, this is the one question I would ask). The first house we drive up to is in a part of town I didn’t even know existed. It is still so absolutely vivid in my mind. It is one of those post-war box houses built after WWII. White siding, less than a thousand square feet, concrete porch. My father hefts the box out the back and we walk up to the front door. I see in the box that there must be a girl who lived here, because she is getting that very doll that I can’t wait to get, too – my reward for helping, my prize for Being Good(!).

We ring the doorbell and wait. A minute or two passes, and finally the door creaks open and a little girl is staring me right in the face. She is my age, and we are the same height. But she’s dirty. As her eyes turn from me up to my father, they get huge as saucers and she gets the biggest smile on her face I’ve ever seen.

“Santa!” she cried, “Santa you’re here! I KNEW it! I knew it!! Daddy said you wouldn’t come because we’re too poor but I told him you would! I knew you wouldn’t forget me!” She turned around and yelled back at someone I couldn’t see, “I told you! Santa comes if you’ve been good! He’s here! He’s here!” Her mother comes to the door, takes the box; the adults talk for a minute, I assume, I’m not paying attention. I am completely riveted by this girl who is just like me, as she dances around her dilapidated living room, full of Christmas joy, smiling and laughing and happy about the cardboard box full of used toys we just gave her. Toys that perhaps came from the bottom of my very own toy box that I gave away to make room for the new ones I knew Santa would bring me because I’d been good, too. The door shuts on the scene and all is quiet again. I can still hear muffled shrieks of delight, and I imagine she has just discovered the doll.

We walk back to the truck in silence. We both get in and I see my father look over at me, and he seems to want to say something, but I turn my head. So he doesn’t. We drive on in silence. When we get to the next house, I tell him, “I think I’ll just stay in the truck.” I can’t do that again. I can’t even make sense of what has happened, all I know is I’m incredibly sad and absolutely shocked. I don’t think I knew this world existed. And if I did know it existed, I certainly didn’t know there were little girls just like me who lived in it.

We finish the night and go home. The next night, I hide in my room, hoping my father won’t come find me to go with him. He doesn’t. And that doll I wanted so bad? My reward? Somehow, I “forget” to ask for it, and my father “forgets” to ever bring it up again. Christmas morning dawns, the tree is peppered with gifts from Santa, and the day is spent oohing and ahhing over all the new toys, but for me, the brightness of the day is significantly diminished. My mind wanders back to the little girl, dancing around with joy, her belief in magic and Santa firmly planted for at least another year. And I wonder what she’s doing right that very minute. Try as I might, I cannot let go of the image of her. I can’t forget that night. I’m not supposed to forget it, I believe.

I learned something that night. Even today, I don’t think I can accurately articulate what occurred, but I can tell you that my life changed forever. Profound for a kid, I know. But it did. To this day, that story continues to haunt me. I think about it all the time. Christmas has never been about getting for me, it is only about giving. And I continue giving all year long. It is a daily goal, a way of life for me. Santa comes to those who have Been Good. Just as my father was Santa in a very literal way, I am also Santa – to other little girls who now get cardboard boxes for Christmas (I wonder if they still do it that way), to women in battered homes, to little boys with leukemia, to pets without homes, to victims of disasters, to those who live in foreign countries, to those that live next door – I am Santa. I give time, money, and support. I give to anyone and everyone. I sometimes give to my own detriment – there have been times in the past where I could not make my own bills because I had emptied my bank account to help someone in need. But I can’t change. This is who I am.

Whenever I feel overwhelmed and consider giving up this Be Good life, when I think about putting down the torch and letting someone else carry it for awhile, I hear her in my mind, “I knew you wouldn’t forget me!” And I know – I know - deep down inside – no, she is not forgotten, not as long as I’m in this world.