Or the mother who would whisper so her young son couldn’t hear, “Where do you come from?” I’d turn to the child and say, “Your mom wants to know where I come from Willy.” And he’d say, “From the North Pole, Mommy,” with absolute certainty. And she’d nudge me and whisper, “You don’t understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you come to this house?” I’d turn to the boy and say, “Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know why I came to see you.” And he’d say, “Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy.” And I’d pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and she’s confused and bewildered and I’d leave her like that.

As time went on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on anonymity, but toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20 children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.

And on my last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and repeating to their skeptical mother, “He’ll come, Mommy, he’ll come.” And as I rang the door bell the house lit up with joy and laughter and “He’s here… he’s here!” And the door swings open and they all reach for my hands and hold on. “Hya, Santa… Hya, Santa. We just knew you’d come.”

And these poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take each one of them on my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.

And all the while there’s this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I’m through with the others, I turn to her and say: “You’re not part of this family are you?” And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, “No.” — “Come closer, child,” I say, and she comes a little closer. “What’s your name?” I ask. “Lisa.” — “How old are you?” — “Seven.” — “Come, sit on my lap,” and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap. “Did you get any toys for Christmas?” I ask. “No,” she says with puckered lips. So I take out this big beautiful doll and, “Here, do you want this doll?” — “No,” she says. And she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “I’m Jewish.” And I nudge her and whisper in her ear, “I’m Jewish too. Do you want this doll?” And she’s grinning from ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.

It’s been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long enough to say, “Ho! ho! ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend.”

And I say to you now, MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIENDS.

By Jay Frankston