Winter/December

The Celluloid Santa

Today I put all procrastination aside, walked out to my garage, climbed a ladder and retrieved two or three boxes and returned, determined to reinaugurate another Christmas Season within the confines of my living room.

As I unpacked their contents, I mused over why these simple objects , a tree, a set of electric candles and a Santa mounted on a charging reindeer, should have any significance in my life. But, oddly enough, they do. The tree is a small artificial version of a fir with lights attached, bought a few years back to make preparations for Christmas a bit simpler. It struck me as strange that I should be erecting a miniature man-made specimen inside my house when I am surrounded by hundreds of evergreens with more claim to beauty and authenticity than the one made of wire, cloth and green paper that will occupy a table in my front room for a period of only 15 days.

I withdrew from another box two sets of plastic candlesticks with yellow electric bulbs at their tips, representing, in a rather awkward way, their flaming wicks. I have a house full of wax candles, any one of which would put to shame these brazen impostors. But they will join the plants in my bow window, shining out on a small dark lane in the woods for a while.

From the last box there emerged the mounted Santa, grinning and waving Christmas greetings at Holiday celebrants who have viewed him in my home down the many long years. He is made of celluloid, a material that betrays his age. I remember him as a young child, having first made his acquaintance when I was ten. He made his appearance at this time every year of my life for the past sixty-seven Christmases. I take him out of the box gently, aware of his old age, and place him on the book table where he will remain, grinning incessantly at me until I return him to his box for another year. I pause and wonder how many more times I will see him.

And so at such a time as now, I ponder the significance of these little artificial things that I display in my home each Christmas. They are not what they seem to be. They are extensions of my memory, my vision and my touch. They tell me of a lost wife, a long-departed youth and all the former days of sunshine and rain I have passed through in my life. They are reminders of its precious brevity and, at the same time, its unending continuity. They are the charms we keep in a box against the darkness that surrounds us.