FIREMAN SANTA

I wrote this piece for the Two River Times in 1992...have to say there isn't a Christmas that goes by that I don't think about this.

I can still see Dad, Christmas morning, sitting in our overstuffed chair wearing his blue striped cotton robe, holding his camera and looking out the window.

We kids all knew who he was waiting for. Dad was waiting for Santa, and he wasn’t the only one anxious to see him. So we all kept Dad company, in that front room, playing with our new toys and waiting.

Time passed slowly before we would finally hear the fire truck. We always heard it long before it was anywhere in sight. The anticipation would build until, sirens screaming, the big red truck with Santa on board was at the end of our driveway.

While Santa walked down the graveled driveway, Dad would be snapping pictures of him, while my brothers and sisters and I were making the frantic scramble to the front door, each of us trying to be the first to say Merry Christmas to our morning visitor. Santa always had a little package for each of us, given with a warm smile and a wish for a happy day. Then with a quick wave good-by he was off finish his rounds around town.

It was an event that was repeated each year at our house until we kids began to outgrow Santa.

It's the Christmas that Dad still hung on to the hope that my youngest brother, Bo, was still young enough for the Santa visit, that's clearest to me. That Christmas morning as the hours went by and Santa never came, when we all realized Bo was too old for Santa to drop by. The disappointment I saw on Dad's face made me realize only Dad was young enough to need Santa's visit any more. It broke my heart to watch Dad get up from his chair to put away his camera. He stopped for one last look down our driveway, then he turned back and saw me watching him. He smiled and held out his hand, asking if I was ready for the big Monopoly game that was being set up in the dining room. I took his hand and he gave it a squeeze.

I knew Dad would be all right. But the memory of his disappointment, that year, always stayed with me.

Now I'm married and my husband, our two small sons and I live in the house I grew up in. Our town still has the Fireman Santa come on Christmas morning and it was as I was filling out the forms that would bring Santa to our door on Christmas Day, that I thought of Dad.

Dad started a tradition. A tradition that's continuing with his grandsons. And even though Dad passed away a few years ago, he'll be with me while I'm waiting for Santa this year.

Christmas morning will be a mixture of memories for me. New ones being made with my sons. But old ones being replayed of my own visits from the Fireman Santa. Especially the memory of Dad sitting in that overstuffed chair, wearing his blue striped robe and holding his camera.