A Hug From Michael

 I look exactly like this...only different.

I’ve been a “Shelter Santa” for many years now.  More than I can count.  I just “round down” to twenty as that seems to be a good enough, round-about number.  My first stint as Santa was a paying gig at the Aurora Village Mall (torn down) where the only true enjoyment was punking friends who had no idea who was in the red suit and beard.  In short:  I’ve been doing this for a loooooooong time.

Even though I’ve been a shelter Santa for a long time, it still doesn’t mean that there isn’t any prep work or self talk involved.  Going over the names of the reindeer in my head (note:  It’s DonDER not Donner), figuring out a response to when a child wants a “house” (standard response:  “I’ll see what I can do.” – yes it’s a cop-out, but I can’t buy every adorable kid who asks for a house an actual house house – let me win the mega millions and then we can talk).

There’s also the situation of what if they don’t ask for a house but ask for $150 pair of shoes?  Or a $500 gaming system?  Yeah it’s not 2,500 square feet and three bedrooms and $300K but, still, Santa doesn’t want to promise what Santa can’t keep.  I’m a bald near fifty year-old office worker, not a never-aging, elf enslaving, miracle/gift worker.

So, yes, mental prep work goes into play and as we wound our way to our church we went over the details:   “What if they ask for a Playstation 4?  What about those kids who didn’t get those $150 Nike shoes?  What if...?  What about...?  What happens if...?”  And we tossed scenarios around like sprinkles on cookies.

Part of doing the shelter party is that you never know who you’re going to get.  Michelle who is surgically repaired hip deep in details can give us a ball-park but, like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.  Some years we’re baby-heavy.  Some years it’s mostly teenagers who roll their eyes as Santa tells them to “Come on down!  You’re the next contestant to sit on Santa’s lap!!”  Still, most will play along, if only to make sure their younger siblings buy into the fun and mystery.  And, it’s the standard two questions:  “Have you been good this year?”  Followed by:  “What do you want for Christmas?”

When we arrived this year there were, count ‘em FOUR kids.  All within that sweet-spot of age (5 to 10).  No babies (one would show up very late – post St. Nick).  No teenagers (there were some in the shelter but they chose to not participate).  Since we never know, of course, how many are going to show up – the volunteers outnumbered the kids approximately 4 to 1.

Just to recap:  Our church takes care of the kids of shelter parents while other volunteers take the parents to a local Fred Meyer and provide them with gift cards and a couple hours of shopping.  They can purchase whatever they want (food, clothing, gifts).  They return at noon to a nice lunch and are given space to wrap presents and then see what their kids have done while they were gone.

We had gotten there early to do prep work (see Michelle’s involvement) and chat and get the lay of the land.  Four kids...wow...   This should be easy.

At about 10:45 or so I go get dressed up, grab some wonderfully made stockings full of goodies (one time a large group of kids got balls in their stockings...not the best idea as they had to throw them everywhere) and then “ho-ho-ho” my way downstairs.  Again, mentally preparing myself for the “house” ask or the “X-Box One” ask.  (Just another note here, our church is VERY generous to these families.  For some parishioners, I think this is their only charitable out-reach and by God if someone asked for an “X-Box One” they might very well get one.  Still, don’t want to promise.)

I take my seat and pull stockings out of bag and call kids over.  One was super shy and had to be coerced.  But then one girl was wonderful and I asked what she wanted.  Her response:  “An Easy-Bake Oven.”  That’s it?  Not a Kitchenaide?  Not an I-Pad?  Okay... “I’ll see what I can do.”  Another adorable little girl:  “A rainbow hat.”  A boy came and went and I didn’t get out of him what he wanted and then Michael sat on my lap.  Michael, I think, is 10.  So he’s at that:  “I should know better stage.”   Where the whole Santa myth isn’t really adding up anymore.  “What do you want for Christmas?”  “Uh....”  Here it came.  Just give it to me straight.  What do you want?  Lay it on the line.  Tell me, I can take it.  Spit it out.  Give me the big number.  Give me the grandiose.  Shoot for the moon!  “Uh....Legos?”  “Legos?”  You’re talking to SANTA here (okay, bald old office worker).  Be like the kid I ran into at The Keg last year who wanted a very specific Harry Potter Lego set that was probably top bidding on EBay for $518.  But... “Uh, Legos?”  Yes, I can do that.  Not a problem.

After a handful of photos with volunteers and handing out of candy canes, it was back up to the “north pole” to get changed and come back downstairs.

Typically, when I come back downstairs, I try to fade into the wood-work.  Partly this is to just observe the kids who are, hopefully, still on a Santa-buzz and partly so that kids don’t put two-and-two together (kind of difficult when volunteers look at me in my street clothes and say:  “Thanks Santa!”) – but fading to the background I go.  (One year I had come back downstairs and I was interacting with someone and this kid next to me whipped his head around as it suddenly became obvious that I was indeed, the man behind the plastic beard and fake belly.  I’ve learned my lesson to, again, fade for a while.)

Parents returned, presents were wrapped, photos were printed, lunch was made and I was still kind of just “hanging back.”

Someone once said:  “You can learn a lot by just observing.”

As the party wound down I was focused back on “Uh...Legos?” Michael.  It was time to go and I watched as Michael, ten-year old boy, went around and hugged EVERYONE.  Not just the people who helped him make a picture frame, or paint a picture, or decorate a bear but EVERYONE.  From the kitchen help, to the volunteers who took their parents to the store, everyone.  He thanked them, wished them a Merry Christmas and went onto the next one.  Not a hesitation.  Not a moment.  You, you were here, you get a hug.

Because I was hanging back I wondered if Michael would hug me.  I certainly, didn’t NEED a hug and he was busy with the many others but before I could talk myself out of how much I actually DID need a hug from Michael he spied me sitting to the side, ran over and gave me a hug.  I hope he didn’t see that I was crying.

Four days later it was off to Sacred Heart Shelter for my next gig.  This is my long-standing gig.  Twenty+ years.  It’s like clock-work.  Party starts at 7.  Children’s choir sings.  I show up at 7:15.  I grab the gifts, place them in my bag, get a run down on hard to pronounce names (note:  I forget within moments and then look like an idiot:  “Is this Lara or Lura?  Oh, it’s Liara!”).  Someone from the shelter heads upstairs, tells the choir director who finishes whatever song they’re singing and then starts into “Here Comes Santa Claus” – I wait for a few moments to go by and then tromp up the stairs and make my big entrance at approximately 7:30.  15 minutes of gift giving and then out I go to find the reindeer that I named Toyota Camry and head home.

Traffic on the 18^th was very good and I landed a bit before 7:15 and was shuffled off to a room to wait.  Get my candy-canes ready.  Fill the bag.  Miss-read names, etc.  And then, more waiting.

As I stood in the ever-warming room, sweat beading up in my suit, I noticed other gifts that weren’t going upstairs with me.  Those were “Christmas morning” gifts.  Excellent.  But I see ages.  One family with a one-year-old and the mom is pregnant but...they’ve got a line on permanent housing.  Another family.  And another.  Maybe there will be a year when I won’t need to be Santa because there are no more homeless and everyone is celebrating Christmas in their own home around their own tree.  I can hope.

Finally, the heat getting to me, and creeping up on 7:25, I asked a worker to tell the Choir master that Santa had, indeed, come to town.

Once upstairs a small girl, not older than 6 or so, had huge HUGE eyes.  Sort of the “OHMYGODSANTAISHEREANDINFRONTOFMEANDHEHASABAGFULLOFTOYSFORMEANDSANTASANTASANTASANTA!!!”

Indeed I did have a bag and it was full of toys and gifts but a mix of gifts for the few kids and the rest for the moms.  But...the gifts for the moms were on top of the gifts for kids and I had to kind of “work the bag” to pull out the kid presents.  Moms, they have patience.  Kids?  Well....

The moment I sat down, Jazz (the little girl) was right up to me:  “What’s your name?”  I’m thinking:  “Does she want to know my birth certificate name?”  No, that can’t be it.  So “Kris Kringle” was the answer and that sufficed.

Soon enough, I was just pulling out Mom gifts and Jazz (the little girl) was getting more impatient.  Still...she was in the moment.  She was shepparding other children:  “A. J.!  Santa has a gift for you.”  Who cares that A. J. is four months old and has no idea of anything.  And then there were the multiple gifts for people who weren’t there which just prolonged Jazz’s agony of “PRESENTPRESENTPRESENTFORME?  PRESENTPRESENTPRESENTFORME?”

And photos of each child, and photos of each mom, and photos of photos of who’s holding the child.  And the child is pulling my beard off and which camera should I look at?  Finally I got down to the bottom of the bag and there was Jazz’s gift and she dutifully sat on my lap and answered the two questions.  Answer one:   “Yes.”  Answer two:  “Toys.”  Both easy.

Now it was time for Santa to gas up his sleigh and head North.  I handed out a couple dozen candy-canes and exited the room, only to hear Jazz yell out:  “I Love You, Santa!”

When I got down to the bottom of the stairs, one of the workers said:  “Oh, we’ve got one more.”

I was confused.  A youngish woman was standing there but I didn’t fully understand.  I was trying my best to not be obvious (hard to do in a corduroy red suit with plastic beard) and didn’t want kids coming around the corner while I wasn’t in “character.”

The worker ran up the stairs leaving me with the youngish woman.  I lost the pretense.  “Hey, how’s it going?  Fist bump?”  We fist-bumped and I did it again because she didn’t “pop.”  She said:  “I like this Santa.”  I asked her:  “Are you a resident here?”  And she nodded.  I wondered which kids were hers and then, finally, my elf helper came down the stairs with her gift.

I had, wrongly, assumed that this was a mother getting a mother gift.  I didn’t realize that this was a child.  Seriously she could have been anywhere between 16 and 24.   And now, well, it was time for photos.  Jumping back into character:  “Have you been good?”  “Yes.”   “And what do you want for Christmas?”  “For my family to be happy.” 

I was at a loss for words.  How do you respond to that?  As much as you mentally prepare – you just can’t...  I tossed out something which, I’m sure, wasn’t very deep or meaningful and whatever I said I mumbled through my sweaty beard.  And then I shook her hand and wished her a Merry Christmas.  Shook.  Her.  Hand.  Even Michael gave out hugs.

Here’s hoping that whatever you find under your tree, that there’s some happiness there, too.