Santa Is Good. . .He Is Real. . .True Story

I overheard my parents discussing their financial woes as I passed by on my way to the garage--something about no Christmas gifts and Welfare as a last resort for money.
“There you are,” I said, as I plucked up my old doll buried amongst items ready for the Goodwill pickup truck. While I prened her matted hair with my fingers, my Dad stepped into the garage for a talk.1

“Mary, I have bad news. Since I haven’t been able to find work, your Mom and I have no money for Christmas. What I’m saying is there will be no Santa Claus this year. So, don’t expect any presents under the tree. I mean it. I need you to help me on this so your brothers and sisters will also understand. What little money your Mom and I have in savings, we’ll need to put toward food and bills. Nothing hurts me more, sweetheart, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m so sorry, honey.”2

“But, I heard you and Mommy talking about some way you could get money if you have to--something about welfare.”3

“Well, let me explain to you about welfare. Welfare is government money set aside to assist people who can’t work like normal healthy people. For instance, blind people have difficulty finding jobs because they can’t see; a crippled person can’t walk; a widow who has children to raise can’t go to work and leave her children home by themselves. Besides, a woman can’t earn as much money as a man. 4

Since God blessed me with a healthy body, by-golly, I’m going to work like every other man in this country, even it I have to clean toilets. The only way I’d resort to welfare, is if it comes to a time we may lose our house. Your grandpa told me how and why welfare started. It would be wrong for me to take unnecessary advantage of it.”5

What my Dad said to me made perfect sense. I felt his heart and learned of his goodness. His message embedded deeply into my soul. In my mind, my dad exemplified what it means to be a real man and Father. However, in spite of the disappointing news, I knew in my heart we’d have Christmas. Somehow, Santa would find a way. 6

My story takes place on 60th street, in East San Diego, California, around 1957. I was the eldest of five, about 9-years of age, with two sisters and two brothers. We lived in a small two-bedroom home with an add-on room my mother built while my father worked. Two undependable jalopies sometimes got us where we needed to go. The brakes barely worked in my mom’s car, but, she drove it. I remember, when she’d picked me up from school and the long hill we’d have to descend on our way back home. Faulty brakes never stopped my mother. As she weaved the car down the hill from side to side she’d simply turn the wheels into the curb to slow the car as she negotiated her way down. When we finally reached our driveway, the garage door brought our car to a halt. Many a prayer said before school warmed the cold engine in the mornings. 7

My faith-filled mother challenged all obstacles head-on. Like a lioness she hunted down food. She traveled downtown to the Towntalk Bread Factory for day old bread; to the chicken ranch for eggs; and to the trash bins in the back of the local supermarkets for old produce. Dented cans without labels, bought for pennies, became surprise food. Discounted damaged boxes of powdered milk replaced the milkman. And, like a magician, she managed to pull out meals from near nothingness. 8

As food grew scarce, for lack of monies, I became very thin, my knees, ankles, ribs and elbows defined. I didn’t know this related to lack of food. But I did notice other children’s limbs looked smoother and nicer than mine.9

My parents taught me never to ask anyone for anything. The polite thing to do is to wait until someone offered. 10

On this particular afternoon, a neighbor friend invited me into her home. Her parents both worked and a woman who didn’t speak English watched over the household. My friend opened her refrigerator to show me the bags of fruit her mom bought, one bag full for each child. Pulling out an apple, she began to eat. By now, lunch was no longer a mealtime in our home. 11

Please offer me a bite, just one bite, please. Drool welled up in my mouth. Gastric juices burned inside my stomach. It took every ounce of willpower to spit the words out.
“May I have a bite of your apple, please?” She responded,
“No! You go home and get your own food.”12

My stomach ached so much as I watched her munch away. Watching became unbearable. With my head bent low, I went home. While my mother peeled potatoes for dinner she handed me a small slice to nibble on. We never reached the point of starvation, thanks be to God, just hunger pangs. 13

Rejection became another reality. After all, who wanted their child to play with a barefoot, no shirt, ragamuffin like me. Thankfully, a child is blessed with the ability to not dwell long on a moment past and to move on. I held no anger, nor did I feel different or less than anyone else. I just needed some new clothes. When my daddy finds a good job, everything will be fine.14

A military man, Officer, D. Watts, who lived on the Naval Radio Communication Base near our home, knew of our plight. He got my dad a job on base doing janitorial work. The part-time job paid very little, but enough to help sustain us. Knowing the difficulty our family faced and nearing Christmas, Officer Watts, submitted our names to be among invited guests aboard, the USS Hancock a replica of the Ticonderoga. 15

About a week before Christmas, we boarded the fantastic aircraft carrier. I wasn’t told the reason for the invitation, but I remember being awestruck by everything I saw aboard as we toured the ship. When we came upon the food galley, the aromas overwhelmed me. 16

Can you imagine a very hungry child going through a buffet full of wonderful home cooked foods including dessert?
“Do we get to eat here?” I asked the sailor as he handed me a large white plate. Each server smiled and politely asked me what food I’d like to have placed on my dish. I could have joined The Clean The Plate Club that day. Fullness filled my tummy, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in a long time.17

The biggest surprise came at the end when every child received a wrapped Christmas gift. Someone must have known how much I loved to draw and paint, because I received a white ceramic statuette of Blue Boy, paints included. As I sat on the ship’s deck, embracing my gift, I took in the sounds of laughter and glanced at all the happy faces surrounding me. Santa came after all.18

On Christmas morning, we all got up, dressed in our Sunday best and headed for church. As we drove away, the picture of grayness in our living room with neither tree nor gifts stuck in my mind. More than not being able to provide gifts for her children, what hurt my mother most was not being able to prepare her usual turkey dinner feast. 19

While the choir sang Christmas songs, I stared at the manger and baby Jesus holding his arms opened wide. A sense of inner peace and joy filled my heart. I knew in that moment we shared something in common. We both loved, best of all, everything connected to goodness and love.20

As we approached our driveway, I spied then shrieked with joy,
“Mom, Dad, look!”
My Dad trembled with excitement. My mom looked on with curious surprise. My little sister screamed, “Santa Claus!” We children scrambled out of the car. There, on our front porch, sat a red wagon filled with brightly wrapped gifts. One of our neighbors had taken her red wagon around the neighborhood and everyone put a little something in it for us. Guess what sat in the middle of the wagon? A big fat turkey. 21

My parents faces glowed with child-like joy. My dad clapped his hands and smacked his lips. Raising up the turkey he said,
“Guess what kids, we’re having turkey tonight!”
My mom grabbed the turkey out of my father’s hands and with an extra wiggle to her gait, she hurried on over to the kitchen. 22

Truly, Santa was good. He is real.23