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| Vineyard Blizzard ’13 dee |
It was the Easter of second
grade that I did the calculations. My
family lived in a quirky house on River Road in Piscataway, New Jersey. After all the festivities of Easter – the
baskets (with gifts of every nature, but limited candy. My mother didn’t
approve of sugar.) our new dresses with white patent leather shoes and bobby
socks, the church service during which I inevitably fell asleep on my mother’s
lap (embarrassing my father with my indelicate snoring) and the enormous ham
dinner with all the trimmings that I gave voice to my growing suspicion. My mother and I were tidying up the living
room at the end of that long Easter day when I finally summoned my courage to
broach the subject. With pounding heart (after all, I knew what was at stake if
I was right), I spoke with trepidation,
“Mom, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I
just can’t see how the Easter bunny gets into the house to fill our baskets.”
“That’s why we leave the
front door unlocked,” was her breezy response. I clearly remember my gaze passing
over my sister, already in sixth grade, who, while remaining silent, had a bit
of a smirk on her face. I read her like a book and knew immediately that there
was more to the story than my mother was telling me.
I persisted, “I saw Dad lock
up the house last night, though.”
At that point, my mother
called for my father,
“Ken, can you come in here
for a moment, please?” When he arrived,
my mother instructed me to restate my suspicions. I sat on the edge of a small cream and gold
love seat with my hands pressed together between my knees. Haltingly, I asked
the question that was at the heart of it. “There is no Easter Bunny, is there?
It’s just you and Mom, right?”
“Well, dear, it’s Mom’s and
my job to help keep the spirit of the Easter Bunny alive. Even your sister
helps.” My sister’s face was serious and
even appeared a bit concerned now. From
her reaction, I knew I was getting the news straight.
With lightning recognition,
it struck me,
“That means there is no Santa
Claus either, right? I mean, we don’t even have a fireplace in this house and
how could he be at so many places at once? If there is no Easter Bunny, there
can’t be a Santa Claus.”
My mother said, “This is
about keeping the spirit of these characters alive. That’s our job. It’s not that they aren’t
real; they just are not real in the way you thought they were. And they are still real for other children who still believe.”
“Does that mean God is not
real, either?”
”The Easter Bunny, Santa
Claus and God are all ideas we carry in our hearts. We believe in them because they are about renewal
and giving and love.”
My father said, “I have
something I would like to share with you, I’ll be right back.” I heard him go
into my parents’ room, open a small door that was in his bureau. He kept
special papers and mementoes there; I knew because I peeked when I was putting
away his laundry on occasion. I had certainly missed this little piece. My
questions triggered an impromptu family gathering in the living room on the
evening of Easter Sunday in 1965. I sat leaning close to my mother. My sister sat
on the other side of her. My father, thespian that he was, stood, holding a paper in his hand, and
began to speak in a deep and sonorous voice.
“My father read this to me when I was about
your age, Dawn. Back in 1897, a little
girl named Virginia was trying to figure out if Santa Claus was real. In
September, 1897, her father told her to write to the newspaper to find
out. The response to Virginia’s question
appeared on Sept. 21, 1897 in an editorial called Is There a Santa Claus?
My father read,
'Dear Editor -- I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says ''If you see
it in The Sun it's so.'' Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
--Virginia O'Hanlon, 115 West 95th
Street
Virginia, your little friends are
wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do
not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not
comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be
men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere
insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about
him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and
knowledge.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa
Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and
you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.
Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be
as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith
then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no
enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood
fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You
might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to
watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if
they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees
Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real
things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you
ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that
they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are
unseen and unseeable in the world.
You tear apart the baby's rattle
and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen
world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the
strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry,
love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal
beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there
is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he
lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten
times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of
childhood.’ ” Authored by Francis
Pharcellus Church, New York Sun.
That Sunday, when I was seven-years
old, was the first time I can remember crying tears of joy and sorrow
simultaneously. One thing was abundantly clear. I had a job to do for the rest
of my life. I had to ensure that I kept alive the spirit of Santa.
So, when my five year old daughter
came home from Kindergarten upset because one of the children had used her sharing
time to tell the other children Santa was not real, I was prepared. I started with a little girl named Virginia.
For that, I thank Mr.
Church, my parents, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and God.
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