By Kris Kringlini
ON a bad day, even Santa Claus can turn grumpy. Ho, ho, ho!
Take my word for it because I’m Santa.
At least, I am for three weeks each December when I pull on a red costume, jam a pillow inside snug to my belly and hide my chin behind a fake white beard. Then I waddle along Bayside Street to work at the Gateway Mall in Sault Ste Marie, Canada. Once on duty, I park my wide rump in a throne-like chair and place children on my knee, chatting amiably as they reveal their biggest wishes for Christmas morning.
Usually, I chat amiably. But one memorable session began with a visit from an overweight, freckled boy who demanded “two puppies” and then tugged on my false facial hair. Repeatedly, he pulled the beard away from my chin, stretching the elastic meant to keep it in place. Then he’d let go, snapping the hairy contraption back into my face. Ouch! Those whiskers packed a wallop.
Muttering that I gave puppies only to gentle children, I stood, tipping him off my knee. I needed all my restraint not to hasten his departure with a speeding boot to his caboose.
“*&#*^#! What a brat!” I hissed. Admittedly, Santa shouldn’t cuss, but I expected no one to hear. One person did.
“Santa, that’s naughty,” said a tiny voice just behind me.
Whirling, I located the source, a scowling girl, thin with long, brown hair and in a golden dress. She looked about five years old. “I heard those bad words,” she said.
“Sorry.” I dropped to one knee to address my accuser face-to-face. “Some children make Santa a tad angry. Not you, of course.”
Silently, she stared into my eyes.
“Will you forgive old Santa?”
She shrugged. “Sure.” To my surprise, she dipped into a pocket and pulled out a plastic-encased candy cane. “Have a treat, Santa.”
“You’re kind,” I said, “but won’t you want to eat that later?”
“It’s for you, Santa.” She thrust the candy at me.
I didn’t know how to react. Despite all the chatter about gifts, no other child had offered me one. Accepting the candy, I dropped it into my jacket pocket. “Thank you.”
The girl looked pleased. “Like my Daddy always tells me, if you’re having a bad day and want to yell or cry, then it’s best to stop,” she said. “Take a break, have a candy and you’ll feel so much better.”
“Your Daddy sounds like a smart man.”
She nodded. “He’s over there.” She pointed to a ruddy-cheeked guy watching us from a respectful distance.
“What’s your name?”
“Holly,” she said.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Holly.” Solemnly, we shook hands.
“Are you the real Santa?”
“Yes, Holly, I’m the real Santa here in Sault Ste Marie.”
She looked dubious so I played a trump card. “What would you like for Christmas?”
“Candy canes and lollipops,” she said. “Then I’ll stay happy every day.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” I bellowed, jiggling my pillow-belly. “Holly, I’m sure you’ll have a great Christmas."
“Happy holidays, Santa,” she said. “I hope someone brings you a nice present too.”
Waving, I watched her trot across the polished floor to her father’s waiting arms. Then I felt a tug at my trouser legs. Looking down, I saw my next visitor, another chubby boy, perhaps a beard-puller too. “Give me video games,” he said.
Then I realized that Holly had delivered a wonderful Christmas gift, one laced with wisdom and promising serenity. “Thanks to her,” I murmured.
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