I Buried Santa Claus

-Wayne A. Wright September, 2012

The crisp, cold air of a late December night made crunching sounds neath our boots as we tramped down the snow-packed streets, for it was only a week before Christmas and nothing could keep us away from our destination on this Wyoming winter night. It was only six oclock but it had already been dark for nearly two hours. Today was the last day of school until after New Years and what a better way to celebrate than to work our way uptown to the grand old community hall, for Santa Claus himself was coming tonight. We lined main street with other kids and parents as Santa himself and Mrs. Claus were perched securely on the fenders of the towns only police car...siren blaring and lights flashing. Santa and Wife waving at the crowd with a mighty, deep and hearty voice chanting Ho-Ho-Ho for all to hear, even saying at times his reindeer were near. As the police car reached the end of the five block main street, we watched as Santa and Mrs. Claus were placed inside the car for the warm ride to the community hall. We best hurry, I shouted to my older brother whom I was entrusted by parents too, We will miss Santa. No we wont, he reassured me. See all these kids here? They have to walk there too. Santa will wait for us. But what about the candy and treats and to sit on his lap and tell him what I want? I worried out loud. Ahh, you worry too much. It will be fine. Crunch, crunch the packed ice and snow sang under my new overboots. I looked up at the gaily strung lights hanging from pole to pole criss-crossing the street, ending at the west end of the street where the giant town Christmas tree stood; a brightly lit sentinel of the holiday. Ugh, this is hard, I complained as we climbed up the pile of hardpacked snow that was plowed from both of the streets to lay in wait in the center of the street for the thawing chinooks of late February. I slid

down and fell as a crust of ice-packed snow glazed my cheek. I could feel the warmth of fresh blood flowing. Ugh, Im going to die. Im going to bleed to death and I wont even get to see Santa, I gulped out between sobs. Im gonna die! Oh c'mon, its not that bad , my brother reassured me as he placed his ever present but also used handkerchief against my new wound, saving my six-year-old life. You will be just fine, hold that there till we get to the hall. Reassured I was going to live, I did just that. The old community hall was a stately landmark for our town, nestled only one block south of main street and on the main highway. It was made of large logs carefully cut and fitted in place with a steep wooden roof capping its head. I didnt know it back then, nor did I care about the history of the hall as it was known around town, even when my dad tried to explain of it to me. The log hall was built in the Thirties during the great depression as a WPA project with the lumber cut by the CCC boys. The logs were cut and hauled from the mighty Big Horn Mountains twenty miles directly east of town, surrounding us in a basin circled by the Pryors to the North, the Great Rockies to the west and the Wind River range to the south. The cold air was captured and inverted here from the first frost till the bitter end of harsh Wyoming winters on the high great plains. It was, in other words, damn cold. Back to the logs that were actually cut and hauled by horse and wagon from the mountain down the canyon on the narrow asphalt and mostly gravel road to the mill at the edge of town where they were stripped and treated then pulled to the cornor lot to be joined and fitted together and raised to its majestic height. All I cared was I just knew it where we roller skated, meet Santa Claus and our folks went to dances, most notably the Firemans Ball or brawl as dad called it. Built wayyy back 1936... who could even imagine? I am, like its 1955, who even cares. Well, except that the building is here and Santa is in it tonight. My brother quipped Follow me, as his grabbed my wool-mitten hand and held it tight. His grip felt good. My seven-year-old brother was

strong and nice and my hero. He was everything to me and he let me follow him around anywhere, anytime. My mitten tugged at my coat sleeve, attached by the snapped elastic strap, (so as not to loose them, as mom would say. Mittens are expensive, especially knit wool.) We gathered behind the wooden four-foot-wall that stood between the main floor of the hall and its entrance wall, winding like a wavering snake around the corner to the front of the stage. The stage where Santa was seated next to Mrs. Claus with a large green bag by his side, a kid on his lap and a Ho-Ho that could be heard across the hall echoing against the high ceiling and settling in hushed silence of over one-hundred kids standing patiently in line, eyes wide, mouths gaped open but penetrating silence as if every sound we made or uttered would be somehow recorded by Santas helpers and placed in the who-has-been-naughty-or-nice book. My brother gently tugged me along until he looked back around at me to check on my gaping wound that was only a bad scratch and witnessed me sweating profusely. He let go of my hand and unzipped my coat and then tugged off my mittens leaving them to dangle from my sleeve like a limp man on a lifeline. The line was moving fast, so we thought, and, of course, we noticed each child getting off Santas lap clutching a brown paper bag, a present from Mrs. Claus. I always wondered if Mrs. Claus had a first name so I asked my brother who knew just everything. Gosh, I dont know, I never thought of it. Why dont you ask her? Are you kidding. I mean yeah like ask her and take a chance on not getting my brown bag. Ill wait and ask mom I thought, thank you very much! Suddenly I felt my brother pushing me forward as two strong arms half tossed me into Santas lap! I couldnt believe it, I was there! And just whats your name little boy? a deep husky but comforting voice boomed. Well uh, gosh, I uh, well you know. I wrote you a letter. didnt you get it?

No, I dont have time to read them all, my elves do that, that is why I come to different towns so boys and girls can tell me themselves. Sounded good to me. Well, I need a horse and a saddle and some hay. And, oh yeah, a fence for the backyard and a puppy to keep him company. A horse? Do you live in town? Well yeah. I do. You cant keep a horse in town. How about something else? Well, okay. I still want the puppy. A brown one. And a bike. I need a bike, I am too big for my trike, I said sitting up as tall and straight as I could muster. We will see what we can do, ahh, Wayne was it? Yes! yes! Santa remembered my name! He knows me. Mrs. Clause has a gift for you. Thanks Santa, dont forget to get you cookies and milk I will leave out for you. I wont, I promise and Ill call your folks about the puppy and do my best. Here you go son, and merry Christmas! said Mrs. Claus. Oh I wanted so bad to ask her if she had a first name but all I could muster was a sincere but half-hearted thank you. You too Mrs. Claus. Merry Christmas! Oh, I forgot to ask Santa if he knows where I live. Yes, dont you worry about that, Santa knows where everybody lives. I looked behind me as my brother jumped off Santas lap as another boy was climbing up. I was sure glad Santa has a big lap. I ripped open the stapled bag and peered inside wondering what treasures lie in wait for me. A bright orange...orange.! Well, that made sense I guess. But whats this? Candy, oh boy, not just candy but the kind of candy you only get at Christmas. Bright colored swirls of hard candy, green and red and twisted and just waiting for a mouth to suck it all up. Dont eat any candy till we get home, I dont want you running and choking on it.

Okay, I wont. Ron? Do you suppose he really will bring me a puppy? I dont know, I hope so, he said with almost a hint of doubt. Youll just have to wait and see. Well, what did you ask Santa for, huh? Cant tell you, if I did I may not get it. You, secret Santa stuff. Look mom and dad!! Just look at my candy, dad will you peel my orange. Look at this big green and red swirl, isnt it pretty? Dad, somewhat distracted by Lawrence Welk, took the orange and give it to mom. I forgot-dad will not get sticky under any circumstances or conditions for any reason. Thanks, mom, you know what??? You want to guess?? Well guess!: No, cant guess mom, times up! Santa is going to bring me a puppy, a real live brown puppy with big ears and wide eyes and he is going to be all mine and I am going to call him Fred and he is just going to be the best puppy in the whole world and he will sleep with me and do tricks, I managed to sputter in one huge, deep breath. How long till Christmas when I get my puppy? He can sleep with me, cant he mom? Huh, can he mom, can, oh gosh, he is just going to be the best puppy in the whole wide world. Somehow dad didnt look quite pleased at all of this as mom gave him a sort of pleading look. She missed her dog. We all did. Well, except for dad. He said dogs belong on farms, not in houses. But hell see. Just wait till Christmas. And I did wait and want like nothing else. And early Christmas Day a brown puppy greeted me in bed, licking my face! I called him Fred and had the biggest eyes and floppiest ears and he followed me everywhere he could, if he wasnt spinning out on the waxed floor. Or making little round wet spots on the rug. But he learned, and he was the best dog ever. We both graduated from high school together, me with a diploma and Fred to heaven. I think Fred got the best of the deal.

When we going dad? We need to hurry if we are going to see Santa! cried my oldest little girl hanging onto her big brothers sleeve while my wife zipped the coat on my youngest son. I bundled my baby daughter in the third and final blanket. It wasnt easy being the father of four kids, the oldest only being six, the youngest, six weeks. Should we really take her out Wayne? Its really cold tonight. Itll be okay, she might as well get used to these Wyoming winters like the rest of us. She has her foot pajamas on and three blankets, she will be just fine as long as she doesnt smother to death. We all piled into our new 1988 Plymouth Mini-van, just the ideal for our growing family. Getting the last kid in and sliding the door shut and secured, I made my way around to the other side of the car, crunching snow and slipping on ice. Some things never change, I thought, remembering back to Christmases past. You know kids, when I was your age my brother and I had to walk uptown to see the lights and Santa and go to the hall. You just dont know how lucky you are. And snow, well let me tell you about snow. It was up past our knees, no, almost to our waists. And we walked. In the cold, all the way. Without parents tugging at us. Gee dad, thats the same thing you said at dinner. Cant we just go? So we did, tires crunching, frost on the window. Ho-Ho-Ho. But somehow I had still captured in my minds eye the glory and glamour of Christmas. And Santa Claus. And I still didnt know if Mrs. Claus has a first name. Maybe tonight I will ask her. Things have changed over the years, but the town tree still is placed at the west end of main street, it is still colder than hell, the streets are now cleared and the snow hauled away, kinda sad not the see the big drifts in the middle of the street to climb on. New lights graced main, they no longer were strung from pole to pole but each pole now had its own lit ornament. The street was crowded and we had to park a block away and slip and slide to the sidewalk on the street in front of the gaily lit windows of the

old drug store. It had become a big doing, the arrival of Santa, and a small parade and a snow queen and the lighting of the tree. All a small towns best to compete with Cody, 50 miles to the west or Billings, 120 miles to the north. The days of small-town shopping and support had become erased by good highways, good cars and cheap gas. New stores with names like Wal-Mart and Best Buy were now in our everyday vocabulary and the times of customer loyalty have been dissolved further and further each passing year, and sadly, unheard of by our kids. It was sad as I glanced down the street while waiting Santa. Ready to hoist my kids up, pushing our way to the front. I was used to it but tonight even I was taken aback by the empty buildings intertwined among the bright lights. Small town America as I knew it, as I was raised in it...is no longer. Sadly, my kids will never know the unsaid loyalty of a doctor coming to the house a 3 am in a blinding blizzard and the pharmacist awakened at 4 to fill the prescription. Of having waiting a week or two for a special order coming in from Chicago or even the anticipation and opening of the large brown package from Kansas City marked Sears, Roebuck and Company. One by one they folded op, pulled out. Anthonys, Vaughn-Ragsdale, the corner drug, leaving only one drug store in town, and maybe, worst of all and saddest for me, the closing of the old Big Horn Theatre. The cold snapped my nose as the siren rang forth from the police car, even it had changed-no longer a waving up and down, now a barking, blaring, yelp-yelp. There he is kids, can you see, theres Santa. Here, Ill lift you higher. Now can you see!! They saw and they wondered why a man approaching middle age quicker than he wanted, had a frozen tear running from his eye. So much has changed, I thought. So very much, but through it, through all the generations, Santa is still the same man, his loyal wife still freezing in the cold with him going to the old stately community hall that was in bad need of renovation. There was even some talk of tearing it down and building a new modern building. The Firemans Ball was now held at the new modern Elks hall and all the building was used for was roller skating two nights a week and church AWANAs on Wednesday nights.

I stood there and waved as Santa passed and wondered if she did have a first name. My dad, never one to get excited over Christmas, was no help on the matter, my wife didnt know and even thought it stupid that I would wonder over such trivial and mundane matters. It mattered not. I wanted to know and, by gosh, this year I was going to find out. The old wooden barrier had long been torn down and kids and parents all shouting, grumbling without any wonderment at all, pushed and shoved their way to the Clauses and grabbed the same brown paper sacks of long ago and made a hasty retreat to the door. No Santas lap for any of them, just a quick trip to Billings in the morning for shopping and a day away from the kids. As I rounded up, moved em out and headed home I felt a little hollow inside, a little disillusioned and even a touch bitter. Hey kids, want to drive around and look at the lights, they really have some nice ones up for the contest this year? Secretly I was hoping I would get a prize for mine, put up on Thanksgiving to beat the real bitter cold of December and staying, but not lit, until spring. No, I wanta go home. Frostys on TV tonight. And so, old traditions gave way to new with shiny tensile commercials, trips out of town for shopping and only fleeting and fading memories of Christmases past when it was the highlight of the year to talk to Santa and watch them light the lights. My dad had retired from the volunteer fire department a few years before I was 21 and could join. It was a big deal with grade-schoolers if their dad was a fireman and set for good bragging rights. The Christmases came and went, my kids were now in middle school and high school, I was still a fireman among other duties of a father with a growing family. I think the hardest memory of my youth came when Santa couldnt climb the stairs to the meeting room at the fire hall anymore, and even though we granted him honorary status, it wasnt the same without him. We knew that soon, after over fifty years and a charter member of the Greybull Volunteer Fire Dept. he would no longer be able to be Santa. But this year he was, Mrs. Claus by his side just as she had

always been, an icon in her own right, sitting in the cold but this time in the back of a shiny new pickup and three police cars in the lead, two fire trucks following. The privilege of being a small town type hero to your kids, being fireman in a small town was greatly hampered by the fact that we also ran the towns only ambulance service. The old town doctor tried three times to retire but either the people wouldnt let him and still called him or else he just plain got bored and came back. The fancy new doctors were at the hospital halfway between Greybull and Basin and Basin also had an ambulance service that covered all of south Big Horn County except for Greybull. It was run by a family funeral service. It was the town joke that they wouldnt try to hard to save the victims because they would make more money planting them. Small town humor. It was a still summer night, the dry humidity, the fact that at 6 pm it was still 98 in the shade and the swamp cooler faithfully churned out cool air. I was just setting down to dinner, carried in pizza, a surprise by my wife that knew I cherished pizza. All the kids were actually home for dinner. We tried to make a habit of that, everyone having a turn to tell one another about their day, their hopes, their plans. It was the best hour of the day. I had just finished blessing the food as the telephone rang. I answered and heard the voice of a very distressed fire chief asking me if I could take an ambulance call. I said sure. He said Bob would met me at the fire hall. I never even thought it strange to question why the chief was calling me and not the sheriffs dispatcher that handled all our 911 calls. When chief gave me the address, I knew. Ambulance call, I yelled as I ran out the door. I hit a green light at the towns only stoplight and was at the hall in less than two minutes, in the ambulance, red lights flashing, pulled out of the hall, waiting for Bob. I didnt wait long, he jumped in, we looked at each other, started to speak and didnt as he hit the siren and I radioed in route.

It was six blocks from the hall and we were there before we wanted to be. The lights of the police car were flashing and guiding us to house. I backed in, looked at the cop who shook and head and said nothing. We entered the house, the three of us, I could hear crying and shouts of George, George, wake-up! Lying on the floor, ashen, turning blue was Santa Claus. I knelt down feeling his ceratoid for a pulse, felt none, tore open his shirt and shouted to Bob, Mouth or chest? Chest! he shouted back as we began CPR. I stopped long enough to yell to the cop to get the CPR mask out of the ambulance, then titled the head back, establishing an airway, I began to blow. I blew, Bob pushed. I blew. Bob pushed. I blew harder and Bob pushed faster. We heard ribs break as we worked and worked and worked. The cop couldnt find the CPR mask, I braced myself. I didnt have to wait long. The vomit came up, in gushes, flooding my mouth. I stopped, gagged, puked and put my mouth back on his. CPR is hard work, damn hard. You tire quickly. The noise of a pleading wife of sixty years ringing in my ear along with the sound of cracking ribs and wondering how long I could hold out or even if it was worth the effort. I saw the wife, I didnt want her as a widow, not tonight, not on my watch. I blew. Doc showed up and placed his scope on the chest, the neck, the arm, everywhere, I looked at him, he nodded, keep going. I was ready to collapse. I was covered in vomit, his and mine. Bob was sweating like a pig. Mrs. Claus was now silent, tears still flowing as her daughter held her tight. Finally, Doc whispered and shook his head. We stopped after a brave, hopeful, tiring, impossible 20 minutes. I dropped back and saw his pants. Dying isnt pretty. Anything from any human orifice will come out, leaving none with any sense of dignity. It was something I never got over. Bob and I stumbled to the back of the ambulance, grabbed a blanket, went back in and covered Santa Claus. I patted Mrs. Claus on the shoulder, whispered comfort as best I could, very grateful when the minister showed up to take over. Then I went back outside and threw up like I never had before. I noticed quite a crowd gathered round and

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embarrassed, I looked down trying to avoid the stares but knowing I would just shake my head and they would know. The ambulance from the funeral home pulled up and took over. We got in returned to the hall, secured our gear, returned home. Cold pizza awaited me as I blurted out my story to my wife trying my best not to make a scene in front of the kids. They had seen the scene before. Its part of small town life. You do the best you can to help, to put out the fires, to rescue the dogs, to save the dead. Ive done it before, Ill do it again. I am a hardened volunteer that never got hardened. The next day at work I got a phone call from the funeral home. The family wanted me to be a pallbearer, of course, I said yes. I was touched. It was a large funeral; the crowd overflowed from the Elks out onto the sidewalk. I sat in wearing bright red jacket, badge firmly attached, along with my fellow 24 fireman as the services were conducted. An American flag draped the casket with an empty red jacket with a golden Past Chief badge attached. All said and done, I and five others pushed the coffin out to the waiting funeral coach, the path lined on both sides by fireman. Policeman were everywhere. We secured the casket, shut the door, got in our cars. Following the family and the big red fire truck with lights going, siren blaring and empty boots sitting backwards on the running board. We paused a minute in silence as the town fire whistle went off in a final tribute. It was long mournful wave that blew ten times for each alarm. The alarm that beckoned Santato so many fires or so many years, the cast iron bell ringing before the new siren was installed. We wept and didnt dare look at one another. At the cemetery we carried the heavy casket to the awaiting green nylon webbing that would lower it down into the vault, six feet below. It wasnt the first time I did this either, nor be the last. After all, it is a small town. Final prayers were said, the flag folded, and presented, as taps blew sharply in the distance. I went over to the Mrs. Claus and give her a big hug and said I wish I could have done more.

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She smiled, nodded, and said You did good, you did all you could do. I nodded, began to back away then whispered God bless you Stevea, I know you are Mrs. Clauses first name.... I backed away and weep, a vision of times past, Christmases spent and smiles shared, flashed before me as I buried Santa Claus.

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