Sharing in the Christmas magic

It would be a Christmas to remember.
A few days before Christmas 2006, I found myself – as a newspaper employee and as Santa – smack in the middle of a news story and full of conflicting duties.
It was six days before Christmas Eve, and I awoke early. With 20 stops on the agenda, it would be my busiest day leading into Christmas Eve. The trek had become an annual ritual. Santa looked forward to sharing Christmas goodies, stories, laughs and smiles with folks I get to see only once a year.
My first stop was in the foothills of Whitetop Mountain where I visited the office of my dentist and his staff. I greeted everyone inside, saying Merry Christmas and offering candy and treats, a kind word or two, and a photo. I stopped to speak with Dr. David R. Tebbenkamp, busy at work, and found myself drawn toward the tightly squeezed, clamped-closed eyes of his patient.
After a few more greetings, I headed for the next stop. Strapping myself in the sleigh, I saw a slender young man come down the steps from the office. He gave a nod and a wave as he entered his white pickup.  I waved and nodded in return. He departed first, turning back towards the mountain. I turned the other way, toward Damascus.
Soon after departing, I entered the switch-back curves along the route, and appearing behind me was a white pickup truck. The driver, the sole occupant, was digging around his cab. And suddenly, a bag of trash came flying out of his window, glass and paper and all manner of debris scattering across the road. Throwing out trash in this area is not unusual. But this driver continued, throwing out everything he found and swerving his vehicle with each toss.
As we topped the ridge and I thought he could find nothing more to throw, the road straightened out and I saw him remove his shirt. Out the window it went. Down this entire straight stretch of mountain road, he continued to weave and remove clothing, tossing each item out the window in turn.
Whatever he was up to, one thing seemed perfectly clear. He was not safe on the road. Considering I had no chance of reaching authorities by cell phone, my only option was to continue to Damascus.
Down the mountain we continued, occasionally passing a oncoming car or truck. As he kept weaving, I feared he might strike another vehicle, perhaps one filled with children. As I entered town, the white pickup behind me, traffic was moderate and the sidewalks busy with Christmas shoppers. I found a parking space across from the police station, but the pickup continued past, for about 50 feet, before coming to a screeching halt. Jumping out, the driver ran into a nearby used car lot – stark naked.
Two of the town policemen had heard the commotion, and came rushing out to see what was the matter. “Stephen, across the street,” I hollered to one I knew. I pointed to where the streaker was standing. Soon after, he was handcuffed, covered and secured into the back seat of a police car.
Being witness to the entire affair, I waited in the sleigh until one of the officers asked for a statement. I got out and stood on the sidewalk as I told the story. A school bus filled with children passed by, and I waived and smiled to the faces plastered to the windows. I heard someone tell them that Santa had helped the cops capture a bad guy.
The difficult call came the next day, from a newspaper reporter who also is a fellow employee. Throughout the afternoon there were conversations with the reporter and long discussions with my boss. I had one powerful and primary concern with the story: trying to somehow protect the man’s children, perhaps by keeping his name out of the paper. The story ran the following morning, front page, above the fold, with a mug shot and, of course, his name.
I had learned the day before that he had overmedicated himself before his visit to the dentist. Yet he had three young children at home, and it was Santa who witnessed their father’s very public mistake.
A couple days later, I would have to do one of the most difficult things I have ever done: Get up, put on the red suit and walk back into Damascus. I had no idea what the residents might think. I had been their Santa for eight years, but also a source for a very embarrassing story. Perhaps they would prefer Santa not return.
My first stop was the building housing the police and fire departments, where I traditionally stocked up on candy. Going in, I found one of the officers and told him my concerns. He looked me straight in the eye and said, as far as he knew, “everyone” wanted me there.
So I loaded up the goodies and made my way up the street.
Damascus seemed deserted. In the first shop (open for just more than a year) I was admonished by the owner – for missing her on my previous year’s visit. I humbly apologized. Then a customer told me about grandparents who had so greatly influenced their lives. By this time, more customers had entered, beaming and happy to encounter Santa. Talking, listening and passing out candy canes, I was enveloped in the Spirit of Christmas.
Leaving for my next stop, my eyes almost betrayed my senses. There were cars and people everywhere, as if they had magically appeared.
I continued the wondrous sleigh ride through town, visiting shops, homes and children. Everywhere I stopped, everything I saw, was almost miraculous. It was Dec. 23, and the Spirit of Christmas permeated everything.
A few weeks earlier I had found this wonderful brass, acorn bell. I ordered a few and ended up wearing nine on my suit: three bells on each boot, embedded in the white fur, and three attached to the snowball on the hood of my jacket. I wear one for each reindeer. When I walk they sound like sleigh bells on reindeer high above the rooftops.
On Christmas Eve, I awoke early. It had been a bad news week in Damascus. First the streaker, witnessed by none other than Santa, which made the front page of the newspaper. And on the same day, a methamphetamine lab, spewing foul and toxic fume, forced the evacuation of a three-story apartment complex at Woods Landing. The resulting damage meant the residents would be out of their homes for several days, maybe weeks. Maybe even for Christmas.
But I had learned the night before that the residents would be returning to their apartments on Christmas Eve! So after my stops downtown, I made my way to Woods Landing.
As I arrived, several people in the parking lot were unloading and carrying belongings back into their homes. They were talking, laughing and hugging each other, glad to be home. I talked, I laughed, and almost cried as I made my way through the complex, apartment by apartment, handing out candy canes and hugs. The air crackled with excitement.
Stepping off the elevator on the third floor, the hallway was empty except for one frail, small lady to my left, just entering her apartment. A smile beamed across her face when she saw me and exclaimed, “Santa!”
I wished her a very hearty Merry Christmas and welcome home. I could feel her emotions as we talked about the week and returning home in time for Christmas. She was joyous and depressed, and happy and sad. At one point, I thought she was going to break into tears. That’s when I heard the bell. It hit the floor beside my left boot. Glancing down, I recognized it as one of the brass acorn bells on my suit.
Reaching down to retrieve it, simultaneous thoughts flashed through my mind: I would need to replace the bell when I returned home that evening, yet instinctively I also knew what I must do.
“This must be for you,” I told the woman, reaching out my palm, bell in hand.
The moment was Christmas magic for her and for me. You would have thought I had given her a bar of gold.
We talked a short while longer, then I said goodbye and headed to the sleigh. There were a few stops left, but it was late afternoon. Soon, it would be time to climb behind the reindeer for my annual journey.
As dusk arrived, I made a last stop at the Family Dollar store. Opening the door, I saw before me a row of cashiers at their registers, staring straight at me – and all were wearing antlers! Laughing and enjoying the moment, I heartily bellowed out, “There you are, I have been tracking you all afternoon. We have to go. It is almost dark and we have lots and lots to do.”
Everybody in the store was laughing.
As I traveled homeward that Christmas Eve I reflected on a very powerful and magical holiday. I had been honored and blessed to be witness to people coming together in the true Spirit of Christmas. At home, as I began to remove the suit, I found myself staring at three bells firmly attached to my left boot. A check of my right revealed the same: three bells. Removing my belt and jacket, I again discovered three bells, all firmly attached.
I was truly humbled, and grateful for my opportunity to wear the red suit. I also now understood one thing very clearly: The bell that dropped by my left boot was a gift for her. But the other gift that day, that one was for me.
That gift was knowing that when I put the red suit on, I belong. I had watched the Spirit of Christmas grow into real magic and wonder, both around me and within.
I had found the Heart of Santa Claus.
Bill McKee is a photo technician for the Bristol Herald Courier when he’s not bringing joy to area children. He can be reached at or (276) 669-2181.

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