Commentary By Adam Smith

The North Jefferson News



The Christmas season is a time that allows families and friends to retell or relive certain traditions that have become ingrained in our psyches.

A somewhat new tradition in my family is the annual arrival of Santa Claus at my parents’ back door.

The visit is usually preceded by two or more days of severe misbehavior from my nephews. The method of thinking is, Santa telling two young boys that they’re in grave danger of not receiving any presents trumps any spanking, time out or early bed time. It certainly would have worked on me at their age.

Santa showed up last year after the boys had been on a particularly bad streak and they tried to ignore the jolly old elf. After all, he knows when you’ve been bad or good.

The part of Santa is always played by my good-natured father who begrudgingly puts on his red suit, which he asked my mother to make more than 30 years ago. He’s been scaring the yule log out of little kids in Calhoun County ever since.

Santa’s visit is always coordinated with an effort some Broadway producers use to stage the finest productions. First, my sister had two round up her brood and force them into the den and act like everything’s normal.

My mom will then rush out to the basement and rattle some sleigh bells, all while my dad is suiting up. My mom will then reappear from the basement and ask, “Did anyone else hear sleigh bells?”

My nephews, entranced at whatever is on the television at the time, will then perk up and say that they did, in fact, hear sleigh bells, whether they did or not.

Meanwhile, my dad exits the front of the house and walks around to the main staging area. (Back door of the den.)

Then of course, the adults have to act surprised and the flashes from the familial papparzzi’s digital cameras go off as if Santa were a true celebrity greeting his adoring fans.

Santa had a bit of a snafu this year in terms of the ratio of his Santa hat to his wig. He showed up at the door with his hat in his hand, giving him more of a casual look.

My dad, trying his best to disguise his voice so my nephews will not be able to recognize it, took on more of an ethnic flair this year. He sounded not unlike a Mexican bandito robbing gringos of their money at a Juarez, Mex., drinking hole.

Santa: What u want for Chreeestmas leetle boy? Hohoho Have you beeeen a good boy theeeece yeeeer? Hohoho.

My mom was standing behind my nephews pointing to Santa that his hat was not on his head. My dad brushed off the hand gestures and continued his Hispanic-flavored line of questioning.

Santa: Have you beeeeen doin’ gooood in school? Hohoho.

After my nephews had explained that they wanted whatever must-have toys are on their list, Santa exited stage left and was gone.

The sound of my dad clomping around upstairs in his big black boots sounded somewhat like the sound of eight or nine pawed beasts on my folks’ roof.

“Where’d Santa go?” they asked. “He flew away,” we said.

And they believed us, we hope. They probably won’t believe in Santa Claus forever. I stopped believing when I was about 7 and secretly discovered my parents putting toys out for us that should have been from Santa.

However, while they’re still young enough to believe, Santa will probably continue to make visits to them annually. After all, it’s a tradition.