I've always loved the idea of Santa Claus -- though these days I kind of prefer the Father Christmas image to the jolly fat man of the Fifties. But whether you call him Santa, Father Christmas, or Saint Nicholas, he embodies the warmth and open-handed generosity of the season.
I feel sorry for children whose parents choose not to play the Santa Claus game. I remember putting out the plate of cookies, going to bed, and lying awake, listening for the sound of sleigh bells. Magic was definitely in the air . . .
When my boys were little, we played the same game -- with the addition of letters written to Santa weeks ahead and burned in the fireplace so that the spirit of the letter would magically rise up and make its way to the North Pole. On Christmas Eve, there would be hay and carrots for the reindeer in addition to the cookies. And always a little note from Santa in the morning, thanking the boys for the nice snack.
It was evidently the note that eventually awakened the boys to reality. "We noticed," said Ethan, "that Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy all had the same handwriting."
When my boys were little, we played the same game -- with the addition of letters written to Santa weeks ahead and burned in the fireplace so that the spirit of the letter would magically rise up and make its way to the North Pole. On Christmas Eve, there would be hay and carrots for the reindeer in addition to the cookies. And always a little note from Santa in the morning, thanking the boys for the nice snack.
It was evidently the note that eventually awakened the boys to reality. "We noticed," said Ethan, "that Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy all had the same handwriting."
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