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It was definitely time. Not exactly a typical suit. It’s a Santa suit. I’ve had the same one since my first Santa job as a sophomore in high school. Fifty-five years ago.
Our hometown Santa in LaGrange, Illinois was a fabulous 90-year-old guy with a heart bigger than a Christmas tree. All the kids in town would visit him in his Santa chair in this tiny ‘Santa House”—every night till Christmas on La Grange Road. I cut his grass for $3.50 every week in the summer. He’d tell me that when he died, he wanted me to wear his suit and be the new town Santa. In the middle of that Santa season, I opened our front door. His 85-year-old wife had his Santa suit bundled in her arms. She said he passed away the day before. She promised him she would bring this to me. Through her tears, she told me how precious this suit was to him. She looked me in the eyes and said, “He wanted me to tell you that when you wear it, you’re not just dressing up. You’re carrying something.”
I’d sit in that freezing, miniature Santa House six nights a week with two Christmas songs by the “Alvin and the Chipmunks”—looping on a cassette machine. I learned what “audio fatigue” means. And you learn what uncomfortable means when you're sweating to death in a hot Santa suit, a wig and beard strapped too tight around your ears to your face, and a pillow stuck under your shirt. I wish I got a dollar for every little kid that would sit on my leg, take one look at my too-close-up bearded face—and wizz on my suit. It was waterboarding for Santas.
My mom was my agent—when folks called our house for appointments. I had families booked all around town in 15-minute home visits, from 5 to 9—every Christmas season through my high school and college days.
. My mom would have me booked solid by Labor Day.
On those nights, I’d just walk down the family blocks with my Santa bag over my shoulder, looking in town windows for a big family Christmas party. I’d knock on the door, lower my voice about six octaves with a ‘Ho Ho Ho,’ and in I’d go. (Good luck trying that today.) As I’d walk in, I’d listen for parents calling out their kids’ names – and for the names of some of the happy aunts and uncles sipping their fourth Old-Fashioneds and Manhattans. I’d plug the names into a dozen pre-memorized lines from “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” In this half-English accent, I’d dazzle the kids and parents with Stephen Sondheim-esk quality lines like, “When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but fantastic Bobby—I’m so glad you’re here.” A simple magic trick. I’d throw all the adults in a tizzy trying to figure out who was missing and dressed as Santa. When I’d play “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” on their piano—that would really throw ‘em off.
. I can’t possibly express the pure joy of sitting with kids and seeing the absolute wonder in their eyes—looking up at Santa. It doesn’t get better than that.
Nine at night, Christmas Eve. After my last surprise Santa stop. I’d stand, by myself, smack in the middle of one of our town’s streets, blanketed with the white of a winter snow. Not a sound, or a person in sight. With the snowflakes floating through the elm and maple trees, I'd look to the sky and feel winter melt on my face. In that magical moment, town, and love, and wonder, and family, and promise, and Christmas—all would collide.
I sported my new snappy suit at a Christmas event with a sea of fantastic kids. With a bunch of ‘em huddled around me, I was reminded of a tip from that great old man. He’d tell me not to ask kids what they want. But to look them right in the eyes… And to listen. To listen to their beating hearts. To listen to what makes a child—a child. I’ve had kids ask me, more than once, if I could get their dad a job. And one little boy asking if I could help make his mom’s cancer not hurt her so much. The wild thing about being a Santa is that you’re not dressing up as somebody. You are Santa to those kids.
My two girls are in their thirties—and all grown up.
. In a quiet moment with one of them last night, I was reminded I’m still her dad. And, in that moment, she needed her dad. And I tried to draw from what that old man would do—to just listen. To the sound of a child’s beating heart. To that beautiful, wondrous beating heart. Yours, Jimmy Dunne .
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“Jimmy Dunne Says” is available on Amazon at https://a.co/d/0glozZtb Jimmy Dunne is a modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter with songs on 28 million hit records; songs, scores, and themes in over a thousand television episodes and many hit films; a screenwriter and producer of hit television shows; an award-winning book author; an entrepreneur—and his town’s “Citizen of the Year.” Reach out to him at j@jimmydunne.com.
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