One Christmas I decided to give Santa a doozy.
After all, little Natalie Wood did that in Miracle on 34th Street. Remember? She asks Kris Kringle for a house. He thinks she means a doll’s house, but no. She wants a real one! With a swing in the back yard, too.
Hoo boy. (SPOILER ALERT): So at the end of the movie she’s riding with her mother and soon-to-be stepdad, when she screams “Stop!” She jumps out of the car and runs up to this house, unoccupied and for sale. With a swing in the back! The old man really was Santa Claus!
But of course, the two adults have their doubts … until they see Kris Kringle’s cane leaning against the fireplace.
So, my kid-self thought, Santa really can deliver the goods if you ask big!
The other part of this story is I’d just seen the movie Five Weeks in a Balloon, based on the Jules Verne adventure novel. It starred Red Buttons, Barbara Eden, and Fabian (before Fabio, there was Fabian, only Fabian could sing). I loved adventure movies as a kid, and this one had it all. Ballooning over mountains and cities and wild game in Africa. The balloon had a cool gondola, too, shaped like a ship with a unicorn figurehead.
How boss it would be if I had one of those! I could float over my school, Serrania Avenue Elementary, and land on the playground. All the kids would run up and want a ride. And Susan––the girl I was in love with but who thought me a doofus––would finally realize I was the boy for her. We’d fly off toward Disneyland. She’d give me a kiss as we sailed over the Matterhorn.
Filled with hope, I sat down and wrote a letter to Santa. I can see it still. Because I drew a picture of the balloon I wanted, unicorn gondola and all. I think I told him that we had a cement badminton court in the back yard that would be the perfect spot for it.
Thank you and Merry Christmas, Jimmy Bell.
I addressed it: Santa Claus, North Pole. I mailed it myself, in plenty of time to reach him before the holiday.
Back then, on Christmas Eve, my two older brothers and I would sleep in the same room on the far side of the house. In the morning we’d stay there in our PJs until Mom or Dad gave the go ahead, and then we’d charge into the living room. There’d be a fire in the fireplace, the tree would be all lit up, and under and around it, the presents!
But on that particular Christmas morning, I slid out of bed and went to our back window. Surely the hot-air balloon would be there, perhaps with a ribbon attached to the unicorn’s horn.
All I saw was the badminton court––barren, cold, with a hint of mockery to it.
Dejected, I sat on the edge of my bed, wondering if I’d been too naughty that year. Had I exceeded my spitball allowance? Pulled a pigtail? Surreptitiously removed a box of Good & Plenty from Lonny Ezer’s lunchbox?
Nay! Nothing that would deny me my dream gift!
Eventually we boys got the signal, and into the living room we ran. Like always, a fire was roaring, my dad was smiling, my mom sipped her coffee on the sofa.
And there, over by the front door, the coolest blue Schwinn cruiser a boy ever saw. And it was mine!
I don’t remember much more of that Christmas, but I do the aftermath. At some point I told my mom about the detailed drawing I’d sent to Santa Claus, and asked why he did not deliver. She averred that perhaps Santa did not think it safe for a kid my age to have his own hot-air balloon. What if I ran into electric wires, or the wind blew me out to sea?
That was a wrinkle I hadn’t thought of. It made sense. My mom had gotten Santa off the hook.
Well, I loved my bike. It lasted me a good long time, got me to school, to the drugstore (for candy and comic books), to my friends’ houses, and on cool bike trips around my home town. I even remember peddling past Susan’s house once, but alas she made no showing.
That was the last time I ever wrote to Santa. I was a little sad to accept the cold truth about the North Pole’s most famous citizen. But every Christmas since I’ve honored his memory. We had some good times together. Santa gave spice to my young life, and dared me to dream of floating through the sky relishing grand adventures.
I ended up with a Schwinn cruiser, upon which I had adventures of other sorts. And that was fine with me.
So go ahead and dream big, friend. Dream of hot-air balloons. And if perchance you don’t get one, remember to love the bike you have.
Either way, you’ll go places.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and may you go further in 2016!