Undercover Santa

LITTLE ROCK — When the first snap of cold air hits my nose and I hear bells ring over the bright red Salvation Army pots, my mind takes me back:

There’s Mrs. Morgan handing out the coloring sheets. I am so excited; color time equals fun time! On this cold and blustery day, we had to play inside, so we had a special color sheet. This one was a picture of Jolly ole Saint Nick. Seems a simple thing looking back, and I am sure one might wonder how I could get sent to the corner over a color sheet, but I did.

I opened up my new box of sixty-four crayons. This was one of the first projects that I would get to use the skinny, big-girl crayons and not the fat, little-kids variety. In my excitement, it is possible that I missed some crucial direction from my teacher-I was five, with sixtyfour brand new crayons. Give me a break.

The part of the memory most vivid in my mind is the way I planned my attack on the coloring sheet. As I looked at the sheet, following the edges around the jolly figure with my pudgy finger, the words of a conversation with my dad rang in my innocent ears.

“Daddy,” I said, “If Santa is always watching, why don’t I see him?”

“Well, pumpkin, Santa only wears his red outfit on Christmas Eve. The rest of the time he wears other colors and his beard is brown, not white.”

With the wise and completely believable words of my father resounding in my head, I selected my colors: silver, bronze, gold, teal, purple, tan, and because my dad’s mustache and sideburns have red in them; I chose burnt umber for Santa’s beard.

After working diligently for what seemed like forever, I had the most beautiful picture of Santa. He had a multi-metallic hat and vest, and teal and purple striped pants and shirt. I colored his boots to look as close to western cowboy boots as I could with a mixture of tan and umber, and of course the burnt umber covered his long flowing beard. I was so proud while I worked away; silently shaking my head at the others around me, so carefully coloring everything but the trim and boots red. They did not know the secrets that my dad had imparted to me. How could they be so foolish? Santa would never wear those colors today; today wasn’t Christmas Eve! I must say that I did feel a bit superior. My newly learned ability to read the calendar, along with Dad’s secret, made me feel special. I knew something my classmates did not.

When I turned in my coloring sheet, next to last, Mrs. Morgan was speechless, but only for a bit. I can see her talking to me with much passion, though I cannot remember the exact words. But I do remember her pointing to the corner and me feeling very confused about what had brought on her fit of anger.

I was sent home that day, a sad face stamped on my masterpiece, a missive to my parents pinned to my shirt like the scarlet letter. I was made fun of on the way to the bus by people who just could not understand my reasoning. I dreaded getting on the bus and seeing the bus driver, who was my uncle on my dad’s side.

When I stepped up into the orangeyellow, bread-loaf-shaped rig, my uncle read the note, looked at the coloring sheet and laughed.

“Lisa, what were you thinking?”

“Well, Daddy said. . . .”

My uncle laughed so hard at my confession that I was thankful I only lived three miles from school.

When the time came for me to get off the bus I felt a mixture of fear and excitement. I knew the note labeled me a bad girl, but surely Daddy would know that I did it for him, to honor our secret.

My momma met me in the yard with my three-year-old sister in tow. Momma took the note and I saw her expression change from happy to “put out” in the few moments reading.

“Babe, what were you thinking?”

“Well, Daddy said. . . .”

“He did? Well we will talk to him about this when he gets home from work.”

That stung my heart as though she had said, “Just wait until your daddy gets home.” The words no child ever wants to hear. Honestly, I do not remember much about that afternoon of waiting, but what happened when Daddy got home still burns bright in my memory.

I sat like a timid rabbit on the footstool by my daddy’s chair as he read the note, and looked over the picture as my mom recounted my reasoning with suitably big words I did not understand, interspersed between her giggles and Daddy’s guffaws. They both looked at me and commenced laughing so hard that Dad’s face split and I saw all of his perfect teeth and Momma had tears streaming down her face. When Daddy regained his composure, he gave me the speech that all children receive about listening to directions. I was confused over not getting in trouble, but never one to ask for punishment, I let the Santa thing lie, until dinner.

Over my dinner plate I asked Daddy, “If Santa is supposed to come down chimneys, how is he going to get in our house?” (We had electric heat.) Without missing a beat Daddy said, “Pumpkin, Santa is more state of the art these days; he has a transporter on the sleigh.” Well, that made sense. We watched Star Trek together, and that totally explained everything!

Thinking back, it is a good thing Mrs. Morgan did not ask us to draw Santa’s sleigh. Mine would have had a warp engine, transporter and robotic reindeer to boot.

Guest contributor Lisa Collins is from Rose Bud.