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The Story of the Surly Santa and the Tiny Christmas Miracle What Happened When My Son Asked Santa for a Golden Trumpet
(about 7 hours later)
NASHVILLE — It was 1994, a week before Christmas, when my not-quite-3-year-old spied a shopping mall Santa and insisted on paying him another visit. I tried to demur. I tried to deflect. His official Santa visit had taken place weeks earlier. This trip to the mall was just a chance to escape the gloom that is Nashville in December, to wear out those busy toddler legs in a place where it wasn’t raining and cold. We planned to ride a few escalators and throw a few pennies into the fountain: “I wish for a brudder!” my child yelled with every splash of a copper coin, and all the nearby shoppers smiled. I could not smile.NASHVILLE — It was 1994, a week before Christmas, when my not-quite-3-year-old spied a shopping mall Santa and insisted on paying him another visit. I tried to demur. I tried to deflect. His official Santa visit had taken place weeks earlier. This trip to the mall was just a chance to escape the gloom that is Nashville in December, to wear out those busy toddler legs in a place where it wasn’t raining and cold. We planned to ride a few escalators and throw a few pennies into the fountain: “I wish for a brudder!” my child yelled with every splash of a copper coin, and all the nearby shoppers smiled. I could not smile.
Then the not-quite-3-year-old caught sight of Santa, that mythical person of endless bounty, and insisted on another visit. Here was a chance to see the great man one more time before he came secretly and invisibly to our own house in the dark of night!Then the not-quite-3-year-old caught sight of Santa, that mythical person of endless bounty, and insisted on another visit. Here was a chance to see the great man one more time before he came secretly and invisibly to our own house in the dark of night!
Santa himself was less enthusiastic. Perhaps he’d heard David Sedaris read “The Santaland Diaries” one too many times, or perhaps surly is just the default position of a shopping mall Santa in the final week before Christmas. When my boy held his arms up for a boost onto the big man’s lap, Santa simply looked at me. Finally I did the hoisting myself. “Ho, ho, ho,” Santa said. There was no exclamation point after the last “ho.”Santa himself was less enthusiastic. Perhaps he’d heard David Sedaris read “The Santaland Diaries” one too many times, or perhaps surly is just the default position of a shopping mall Santa in the final week before Christmas. When my boy held his arms up for a boost onto the big man’s lap, Santa simply looked at me. Finally I did the hoisting myself. “Ho, ho, ho,” Santa said. There was no exclamation point after the last “ho.”
My son smiled beatifically anyway, confident of Santa’s love and largess. “I yike a golden trumpet!” he announced.My son smiled beatifically anyway, confident of Santa’s love and largess. “I yike a golden trumpet!” he announced.
Behind him, I gave a tiny, tight-lipped shake of my head. Santa did not meet my eyes.Behind him, I gave a tiny, tight-lipped shake of my head. Santa did not meet my eyes.
“I yike a pitchfork!” my child continued. “A real pitchfork.”“I yike a pitchfork!” my child continued. “A real pitchfork.”
Now I was sending desperate semaphores toward the man with the bag. “Please, no,” my eyes begged. “Please tell him he can’t have a pitchfork for Christmas.” Santa ignored me.Now I was sending desperate semaphores toward the man with the bag. “Please, no,” my eyes begged. “Please tell him he can’t have a pitchfork for Christmas.” Santa ignored me.
“Have you been a good boy this year?” he asked. Yes, yes, my son nodded. “Then of course you can have a golden trumpet,” Santa said. “Of course you can have a pitchfork for Christmas.” He looked at me. The expression on his face, even all these years later, is hard to describe. It looked for all the world like revenge.“Have you been a good boy this year?” he asked. Yes, yes, my son nodded. “Then of course you can have a golden trumpet,” Santa said. “Of course you can have a pitchfork for Christmas.” He looked at me. The expression on his face, even all these years later, is hard to describe. It looked for all the world like revenge.
I should’ve seen the whole thing coming. A year earlier, two days before Christmas, a black-and-orange moving van had pulled up in front of our house and the next-door neighbors’ house, too — a truck so large it spanned the street side of both quarter-acre lots. My boy had stood on our sofa for most of the day, watching through the window as workers loaded all our neighbors’ worldly belongings onto that unfathomably large vehicle. At dusk, when they were done, the truck began to back up, beeping all the way. My son hopped up and down, clapping his hands in glee. That night he revised his Christmas list. It now consisted solely of a black-and-orange truck that beeped in reverse.I should’ve seen the whole thing coming. A year earlier, two days before Christmas, a black-and-orange moving van had pulled up in front of our house and the next-door neighbors’ house, too — a truck so large it spanned the street side of both quarter-acre lots. My boy had stood on our sofa for most of the day, watching through the window as workers loaded all our neighbors’ worldly belongings onto that unfathomably large vehicle. At dusk, when they were done, the truck began to back up, beeping all the way. My son hopped up and down, clapping his hands in glee. That night he revised his Christmas list. It now consisted solely of a black-and-orange truck that beeped in reverse.
By the grace of God and Toys ‘R’ Us, Santa found one. But a golden trumpet? A pitchfork? I was pretty sure pitchforks were not part of the Toys ‘R’ Us inventory. Santa was going to need serious backup.By the grace of God and Toys ‘R’ Us, Santa found one. But a golden trumpet? A pitchfork? I was pretty sure pitchforks were not part of the Toys ‘R’ Us inventory. Santa was going to need serious backup.
Four grandparents, a great-aunt, a great-great aunt and all seven sets of regular aunts and uncles were dispatched on a search that spanned five states. For days the phone rang with reports. An ornamental French horn had been located in a florist-supply shop: It didn’t make noise, but it was golden, and it would fit a child’s hands. A miniature rake had turned up in a gardening catalog, and maybe a rake was close enough to a pitchfork? Would a real pennywhistle work in lieu of a trumpet?Four grandparents, a great-aunt, a great-great aunt and all seven sets of regular aunts and uncles were dispatched on a search that spanned five states. For days the phone rang with reports. An ornamental French horn had been located in a florist-supply shop: It didn’t make noise, but it was golden, and it would fit a child’s hands. A miniature rake had turned up in a gardening catalog, and maybe a rake was close enough to a pitchfork? Would a real pennywhistle work in lieu of a trumpet?
In the end, a toy trumpet made of white plastic arrived via two-day mail, along with a decorative French horn — golden but silent — for good measure. On Christmas morning, a handsome child-size rake stood in for the pitchfork beneath the tree. The delighted child in the red footie pajamas didn’t seem to notice the substitution.In the end, a toy trumpet made of white plastic arrived via two-day mail, along with a decorative French horn — golden but silent — for good measure. On Christmas morning, a handsome child-size rake stood in for the pitchfork beneath the tree. The delighted child in the red footie pajamas didn’t seem to notice the substitution.
All this sounds hopelessly indulgent, I know, a rookie mistake by parents — and an entire extended family — who hadn’t yet figured out that they aren’t doing their children any favors when they protect them from every possible disappointment.All this sounds hopelessly indulgent, I know, a rookie mistake by parents — and an entire extended family — who hadn’t yet figured out that they aren’t doing their children any favors when they protect them from every possible disappointment.
But that year our house was permeated by sadness, and I didn’t see how I could bear any more of it. The boy who shouted, “I wish for a brudder!” every time he threw a penny into a shopping-mall fountain couldn’t have known that his mother had just suffered a miscarriage. He had no idea what it meant that tears sprang to her eyes with every wish he made at that fountain. He didn’t understand his father’s feeling of helplessness or his mother’s sadness. We might not be able to give him a brother, but by God we would find him a trumpet. And the entire extended family, on both sides, was determined to help. Together, we would find that child something that passed for a pitchfork, even if it meant paying too much for mail-order garden equipment.But that year our house was permeated by sadness, and I didn’t see how I could bear any more of it. The boy who shouted, “I wish for a brudder!” every time he threw a penny into a shopping-mall fountain couldn’t have known that his mother had just suffered a miscarriage. He had no idea what it meant that tears sprang to her eyes with every wish he made at that fountain. He didn’t understand his father’s feeling of helplessness or his mother’s sadness. We might not be able to give him a brother, but by God we would find him a trumpet. And the entire extended family, on both sides, was determined to help. Together, we would find that child something that passed for a pitchfork, even if it meant paying too much for mail-order garden equipment.
That was 25 years ago, and the not-quite-3-year-old is now a man. All but one of his grandparents are gone, and both great-aunts, too. Even the shopping mall is gone. But not everything is gone.That was 25 years ago, and the not-quite-3-year-old is now a man. All but one of his grandparents are gone, and both great-aunts, too. Even the shopping mall is gone. But not everything is gone.
I didn’t know it in 1994, but my firstborn would eventually get his wish for not one brother but two. The aunts and uncles who loved him then still love him now, and next summer they will gather for his wedding. They will stand behind him as he begins a new life and a new family, a reminder that the new little family is not alone in the world. In good times and in bad, their loved ones will be there to see them through whatever comes their way.I didn’t know it in 1994, but my firstborn would eventually get his wish for not one brother but two. The aunts and uncles who loved him then still love him now, and next summer they will gather for his wedding. They will stand behind him as he begins a new life and a new family, a reminder that the new little family is not alone in the world. In good times and in bad, their loved ones will be there to see them through whatever comes their way.
Every year I find myself thinking of that Christmas, when a surly Santa gave our entire clan a chance to surround our family with love; the chance, collectively, to keep the magic alive for one little boy with a sad mother and a bewildered father who didn’t know how to help the sadness. It was not the happiest Christmas of my life, and it was not the grandest, but it is the one I won’t ever forget.Every year I find myself thinking of that Christmas, when a surly Santa gave our entire clan a chance to surround our family with love; the chance, collectively, to keep the magic alive for one little boy with a sad mother and a bewildered father who didn’t know how to help the sadness. It was not the happiest Christmas of my life, and it was not the grandest, but it is the one I won’t ever forget.
Margaret Renkl is a contributing opinion writer who covers flora, fauna, politics and culture in the American South. She is the author of the book “Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss.”Margaret Renkl is a contributing opinion writer who covers flora, fauna, politics and culture in the American South. She is the author of the book “Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss.”
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