Tim Barto: Santa Claus is … opening our garage door?

By TIM BARTO

Dec. 24, 1968, eastern Ohio. Our family finished a traditional Slovak Christmas Eve meal, of which kapustnica – mushroom and sauerkraut soup – was the main course, and a suspicious lull hung in the house.

Family custom dictated that presents among family members were opened between dinner and midnight mass, but we weren’t gathered around the tree. We were gathered around the black-and-white RCA television, watching some Christmas special, the name of which was lost to my angst ridden six year old brain.

Venturing out of our tiny family room alone, I headed to the living room where seven-foot long-needled pine stood, decorated with a menagerie of homemade and store bought ornaments, hot-to-the-touch bulbs throwing sparkles of light off aluminum and plastic reflectors, and tangled gobs of silver tinsel. A stray cat my sister recently brought home sat on a branch near the trunk, chewing on one of those strands of tinsel.

The presents, with their red and green and silver wrappings sat under the tree, looking rather neglected. I sighed and walked over to the kitchen to sneak a slice of kolachi while waiting for the call to gather ‘round the tree.

As I sat there by myself, chewing on that walnut and doughy goodness, something caught my eyes out the side window. Something moved outside on the driveway. We weren’t expecting any guests that night, as we’d be joining some aunts, uncles, and cousins for dinner on Christmas Day; and it was too early for the Jolly Ol’ Chap to visit. Besides, he entered through the chimney when we were asleep, and only if we were asleep.

Walking slowly near the frosty window, the dark night still except for the multi-colored flashing bulbs that Dad installed on every corner and gutter of the house’s exterior. I leaned in and felt the cold emanate from frosted and poorly insulated windows.

Television sounds bounded down from the family room as Mom ‘n Dad laughed and talked, a bit out of character. Something was up.

Then, again there appeared movement from outside. Leaning into the window, the glass began to fog up from my breath before I had the sense to move back slightly to let it dissipate. As the window cleared, a figure appeared wearing a red hat and suit with white fringes, and big black boots with buckles.

And a large white bag slung over his shoulder.

It was Santa, and he was opening our garage door. Opening the garage door?

Panic swept over me and I ran back to the family room. “Tim, where have you been?” Mom asked. Unable to speak, I just shook my head side to side as if to signal “Nowhere,” as I pondered whether Santa Claus was going to hide out in our garage until we went to sleep, or if he was one of those thieves that kept my Aunt Mary up all night armed with a flashlight and ballpeen hammer.

The answer came shortly with the jingling of bells and a hearty “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas. Are there any children still awake? Ho, ho, ho.”

Whew, it’s not a thief.

Into the living room my brothers and sisters ran as I shuffled cautiously; afraid I had just witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to witness. Santa pulled up a chair while I hid behind the couch, fearing that Saint Nick saw me as he sneaked into our garage, a faux pas that, I assumed, would negate any presents coming my way and possibly tear a whole in the fabric of the universe. There are just certain entities a child is not allowed to see in action:  Santa Claus, and his late night gift bringers (the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy) chief among them.

Chivalry not being lost on Santa, my sisters got to sit on his lap first and receive their presents, politely saying “Thank you Santa” as they hopped down to see what was hidden within the wrapping paper and bows. Then, my big brother Rick, who was a young teenager at the time, was up. He was a bit too grown up to fit on Santa’s lap, but he received a present just as well, and then casually said, “Thank you Grandpa,” as he walked away. “I mean,” Rick continued as he spun around, “thanks, Santa.”

I thought the Ol’ Chap’s voice had a familiar ring to it, and the eyeglasses he was wearing looked really similar to those worn by Grandpa Zetts. “Come on up here, Timmy,” he roared, seemingly unfazed by my big brother’s breach of etiquette. Mom and Dad stood there, all smiles, although I did notice Dad gave Rick a sideward glance after the “Thanks Grandpa” comment.

I moved slowly from behind the couch (a Davenport, my Mom called it) and walked cautiously up to the man in red. “Come on, don’t be shy,” he said to me; another phrase Grandpa Zetts often used with me when trying to get me to swing aggressively at a baseball. I was becoming suspicious.

As I sat on his lap, I couldn’t help but examining his face closely. The curly white beard and mustache concealed most of it, and the hat sat low on his forehead, but there sure were some Grandpa-like features about him. So engrossed was my inspection that I didn’t hear what he was asking me; something about being good this year and needing my own baseball equipment. The word baseball caught my attention and pulled me out of my skeptical inspection. I received my present and set to unwrapping it, finding a new bat and glove, just the right size for a six year old. I said “Thank you” as I jumped off his lap, but did not address him as Santa or Grandpa, as I was unsure which one he was, or perhaps he was both.

Santa announced he had to get going because there were many other houses he had to go to, including our half Italian-half Slovak cousins – Tony, Marie, and Chris – who lived a few blocks away.

The plot thickened, but I was too engrossed with my new bat and glove to spend too much time on the matter. We opened the rest of the family’s gifts for each other, went to midnight mass, then woke up the next morning to full stockings.

“When did Santa fill the stockings? He was here last night,” I asked.

“Oh, he must have come back after you all were asleep.” Mom saw I wasn’t really buying it. “Or, sometimes he sends his elves if he forgets to leave something.”

I squinted at her and recognized that the bridge of her nose, right between her eyes, was eerily similar to that of the red-suited fella’ that sat in our living room last night. Mom broke the quiet tension with offers of food: “How ‘bout some breakfast?”

As we sat there eating our big Christmas morning breakfast, I could just make out some whispers between Rick and my oldest sister, Joni, some of which included the word Grandpa.

Tim Barto’s maternal grandfather, Stephen Zetts, had a hand sewn Santa Claus outfit, made my his wife, that he wore for over 40 years, appearing in malls, parades, and children’s hospitals. He passed it on to Tim’s Dad, who brought it with him to Alaska one Christmas to deliver presents to Tim’s own children one Christmas Eve. The two oldest kids were immediately skeptical.