Preparing For A Visit From St. Nicholas in 1959

Preparing For A Visit From St. Nicholas in 1959

- jim Young

“Childhood joyland, mystic merry toyland, 

Once you pass its borders, you can ne’er return again.” - Glen MacDonough and Victor Herbert

If you shop at Costco, you might think that the Christmas season begins in late July. However, I remember the days when Christmas items didn’t appear on the shelves in Woolworths until after the Hallowe’en stuff was put away in early November. The first snowfall of the season was an indication that Christmas was quickly approaching. The Eaton’s Santa Claus Parade on TV was also a pretty reliable sign that the time was nigh. But for me, Christmas officially began with an Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue.

And Oh! What a glorious time it was! I remember coming home from school to see the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue sitting with the mail on the passthrough to the dining room.

I had two older sisters and I knew I would have to bide my time until they had a chance to have their rightful first look. The pecking order had been firmly ingrained in our family and I resigned myself to my inevitable fate.

I didn’t mind the wait really. My older sisters were… well, they were girls - not that there’s anything wrong with that, but they were at the age when girls were more interested in looking at clothes. How long could that take? Their fascination with dolls and tea sets was waning and I felt sorry for them while giving thanks that I had been born a boy. Neither they nor I understood then just how close they were to crossing the border.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why Eaton’s wouldn’t just put out two catalogues? One filled with only girl’s clothing, like their Spring issue would bring and one that was devoted to nothing but toys. As my sisters browsed their copy of the catalogue, I would immediately be able to slowly turn the pages of mine, at my leisure, with eyes widening with excitement and wonder each time a new toy presented itself on a glossy magazine page. “My precious,” I would mutter as I pointed to the illustrations with spiny fingers. 

With pen in hand, a piece of blank paper on which to write my letter to Santa and the catalogue for inspiration, I wouldn’t begin to know until I turned the front cover what I really even wanted for Christmas that year. How could I possibly know what I wanted until I knew what my options were? After supper, I took my annual spot at the dining room table beside the balsam fir Christmas Tree.

Our tree had been freshly cut just a couple of days prior and its piney scent still filled the air. The brightly coloured lights were blurred with their angel hair covering. When the furnace fired up, the slowly moving air from a nearby register caused the lead icicles on the tree to slowly turn, adding a twinkle from the reflected light of the closest bulb. A lone bulb near the back would sometimes also twinkle, not by design but as a result of faulty cloth covered wiring or perhaps a loose bulb. 

Beyond that, the glow of the cathode picture tube of the black and white television was all the light I needed to illuminate the room enough for my task at hand. I wasn’t particularly interested in watching Lassie save Timmy from the well one more time but was sometimes distracted when the elf-like characters of Snap, Crackle and Pop appeared during a commercial break to promote my favourite Rice Krispies breakfast cereal.

I would savour my time with the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue and leisurely peruse it page by page carefully selecting the items to add to my list as I tried to determine the right number. There had to be one. There had to be a magical number… a limit, so to speak. What was the highest maximum number of gifts I could ask from Santa that wouldn’t break the bank? I had to be careful not to choose one single item over that number - whatever it was.

I also didn’t want to ask for one less toy than I was entitled to. I hadn’t tried so hard to be “good” all year for nothing. And there were still how many days left until Christmas? I wasn’t about to blow it now. If I wasn’t careful, Santa would perceive me as being greedy and undeserving. All hope would be lost. My father would teasingly remind me how valuable coal was. I didn’t care. I didn’t relish the thought of reaching into my stocking on Christmas morning only to remove hands that would cause my mother to banish me to the bathroom to wash up with stern warnings not to dirty the hand towel.

What if I wrote really small? Maybe my wish list wouldn’t look so big. If I wrote in cursive, would that fool Santa? Or would it be better to just print it to ensure that my list was clear enough for Santa’s tired old eyes to read? My teacher had written on my report card that I needed to “work on” my legibility. I wondered if I should type my letter to Santa on my mother’s Underwood? But that could get messy too. Whiteout had only just been invented and was not readily available in the rural community of Painswick in 1959.

Should I write my letter in paragraphs or as a list? I thought more white space would be better but if it didn’t all fit on one page would I have to write on the back? Should I use a second page? What if the pages got separated? Maybe I should staple them. Or would that make the envelope feel lumpy? What if Santa felt the staple in the envelope and thought I had included some money? Would Santa think I was trying to bribe him?

First impressions were important.

I would have to begin my letter writing with politeness. “Dear Santa, How are you?” Then, of course there was Mrs. Claus to be remembered as well. Could I just enquire about the reindeer as a group or would I have to list them all individually? Naming ALL of Santa’s reindeer would take up at least two whole lines. Did spelling count? What if Santa deducted one present for each reindeer name I misspelled? Was it Donner or Donder?

As adults we like to recall what a great and carefree life we had as children, but we often forget to take into account the turmoil we regularly faced on a daily basis trying to complete what adults often perceive as simple tasks.

By the age of seven I was already being conditioned to time my activities in 30 and 60 minute increments which coincided with the length of most television programming. As the end credits of Lassie began to roll I would find myself writing, “Yours turly, (sic) your pal forever, Jimmie Young” as I signed off on my letter to Santa. 

I would then carefully fold the letter, slip it into an envelope addressed simply to “Santa Claus, North Pole”, licking the envelope to seal it. 

Satisfied I had written the perfect letter to Santa, I carefully placed it on the passthrough where I had first spied the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue earlier that day, then headed off to bed. I had faith that Mom would see my letter to Santa there the next morning, fix a stamp to it and make sure it went out in the mail. That was the bond I had with my mother. I could rely on Mom to know what to do even without me telling her.  

The funny thing is, come Christmas morning, my letter to Santa had been long forgotten. The Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue lay in a pile of discarded magazines by the fireplace, pages wrinkled with a few already missing having been needed to start the fire on Christmas Eve.

These days as I sit and reflect upon so many wonderful Christmas memories from my childhood, I honestly can’t say that I remember even ONCE - EVER receiving a toy that was in my letter to Santa. But I can also honestly say that I never ONCE - EVER was disappointed on Christmas morning with any of the wonderful toys that Santa had left for me. 

And as I looked around at the joyful smiles on my sisters’ faces on Christmas morning I still can’t understand “how ANYONE could be so happy to get clothes for Christmas?”

- 30 -

DEDICATION

This article was written for my cousin, friend, confidante and ebay mentor, Stephen P. Greeley. I think Steve is the only other person I know who, like me, refused to cross those borders. Christmas Eve was made for boys like us that will forever look to the stars on that magical night and continue to Believe!