Column: Reminiscing on memories from Christmases Past

My Great-Uncle John Rauh moonlighted as Santa Claus in a double-take-inducing Santa suit made in faithful detail by Mrs. Claus, my Great-Aunt Louise. Every Christmas time, Uncle Santa — I mean, Uncle John — knocked on the doors of all the children on his list. We would anxiously open the door and stand awestruck at the robust, six-foot Santa looming in the doorway whom we did not recognize, or even suspect, was Uncle John.

Eventually, I stopped believing in Santa Claus, of course. Sometime in my mid-30s. (Okay, I apologize for going for a cheap laugh with that old joke. The real age was 25.)

Then one night, Uncle Santa visited his young nephew, Rob Hill. After pleading his case as to how good a boy he had been this year, he followed Santa to the door and then peered out the window to see where he went. Suddenly, an excited Rob bolted to the kitchen.

“Mom! Mom!” he cried.

“What is it, Robby?”

“I just saw Santa Claus get in the car with Aunt Resus!” (That’s what he called Aunt Louise.)

After expressing some doubt to their adamant youngster, my Great-Aunt Lorna and Great-Uncle Al joined Rob in marveling at what an amazing development that truly was. How could it be that Aunt Louise knew Santa Claus? Amazing!

Sometimes, Uncle John Santa would make appearances downtown at stores or other places. Once, he needed a ride home but was stranded for a while because he couldn’t find someone to loan Santa Claus a dime to make a phone call. (True story.)

Christmas is often a time for memories. Going to candlelight church services just before midnight, and then trying (futilely) to stay awake and see Santa in our living room. And when I was older, coming home after midnight church and unwrapping presents around the Christmas tree.

One of my earliest and best memories was building a snowman with my dad. It was the December before I started kindergarten when Dad surprised me by saying, “How would you like to build a snowman?” I had seen pictures of snowmen, and now I would get to make one with Dad. That would be fun!

So we dressed up warm, put on our gloves and mittens, and he showed me how to pack the snow to make the body and head. He asked me what things I thought we should put on our snowman, like a hat, carrot nose and buttons for his eyes. We found branches for arms and hands, and we wrapped a scarf around his neck. Dad kept sending me to ask Mom for these things, so she helped, too. My brother had a cold, and he was a little too young, anyway.

I guess the thing was, this was just Dad and me together. It was great making a snowman, but really the best thing was me getting to do something fun with Dad. Mom took a few pictures, which are still in an album today. They show my 30-something-year-old dad and me in our white-blanketed front yard, the cigarette you often see in 1950’s photos in his hand.

That night in my bedroom, I climbed up to the window and gazed at our frozen snowman in the moonlight. I thought about Frosty the Snowman, but our snowman wasn’t in a book; he was real. I hoped he would stay just like he was for many days. But he didn’t; he started slowly melting the next day, returning to where he came from. But I never forgot him or that happy afternoon with Dad.

It looks like I won’t have space to reminisce about more toys this time. We’ll get back to them in another column.