By Mark R. Henscheid
This is the ninth of 10 essays chosen to be published in the Deseret News annual Christmas writing contest, “Christmas I Remember Best.”
Pop first put on a red suit two to three years after his discharge from the Navy at the end of World War II. He had returned home to Idaho, and using the GI Bill, began taking courses at Idaho State College. The ties to the farm and family were strong, and it was the right place for him.
He was the second son of 11 children that helped work the farm, loved to mingle with members of his church group, and was asked to play Santa for a party. Little did he know that the cute high school senior that sat on his lap and responded, “A date with Santa,” when asked what she wanted for Christmas, would be his bride (and Mrs. Claus) for 60 years.
Pop’s schedule from Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve was so hectic — running a business, tending with Mom to their family of nine, and juggling a growing schedule of events that ranged from church and private parties to riding in the community Christmas parade and greeting guests in Santa’s Shanty on Main Street.
But he loved playing the role, seeing the sparkle in little eyes, and almost never turned down a request.
My duties were simple as I rode with him one winter night — keep him on schedule, fill his sack with any gifts or treats he’d been given to pass out, make sure his beard was on straight, and carry out the goodies he would get when we left that appointment. We’d left one event, and were headed out to a remote farmhouse quite a distance from town. Pop had kept all his suit and beard on for this last visit.
The snow grew heavier, and the roads were slick as we slid into the night, slow going in the old Corvair. But I got worried when he checked the rear view mirror and said, ‘Uh-oh.” He was getting pulled over.
When Pop rolled down the window to greet the deputy sheriff that had stopped him, there was a quick gasp from the officer. Before the deputy could say anything, Dad asked, “Well, are you going to be naughty, or are you going to be nice?”
“Santa, I just wanted to let you know you have a taillight out,” said the deputy, a little nervous.
“OK,” said Pop, “I’ll get it taken care of. And I’ll put you on my nice list!”
With a wave and a chuckle, we were back on the road.
The small single story home we arrived at was an isolated farm cottage in a very remote corner of southeastern Idaho, and I’m sure no one was expecting a visitor this late, and with this much snow.
But when the car lights shone on the front window, the curtains parted, and multiple little heads peeked out the window. We could hear squeals of delight when they saw who climbed out of the car.
We made our way through the drifting snow to the front door, and were welcomed inside. There, in the small front room, was a narrow hospital bed holding a much-bandaged young man who had been hurt very badly on a spud combine that fall harvest. The close, rural community had alerted Santa of the family’s needs, provided gifts for every child, Mom and Dad, and asked if Santa could make the trek that far into farm country. “Of course I’ll go.” Pop said.
Over the many decades and hundreds of events that Santa appeared at, I know that no one felt the love of this man more than that family that night. No image of Christmas and my father is stronger to me than what I saw as he bent over the bed, held that young man’s hand, and asked how he was. As he turned and knelt to greet each of the youngsters gathered in the room, his tenderness and attention were precious.
We stayed until every wish was known, hopes shared, and tears dried. Then it was back out into the snow, and a long drive back home to Mrs. Claus. This was truly the spirit of Christmas.
Mark R. Henscheid lives in Highland.