The Night I Met Santa Clause
When I was a very young man, just beginning to make my way, I was invited to dine. It all took place on Christmas Eve at the home of a distinguished New York philanthropist. After dinner our hostess led us to an enormous drawing room. Other guests were pouring in, and my eyes set on two unnerving sights: Servants were arranging small gilt chairs in long, straight rows. Up front, leaning against the wall, were musical instruments? Apparently we were “in for” an evening of chamber music. I use the phrase “in for” because music meant nothing to me. I am almost tone deaf. Only with great effort can I carry the simplest tune. Long hair music to me is no more than squeaky string violins, and fun little piccolos, trumpets clarinets and such. Drummers clash the symbols, pounding on their timpani drums, gongs, gourds, and triangles cow bells, whatever. Over and Over all night long. It’ all guaranteed to wave you to sleep then wake you up all night long. I avoid attending any symphony consorts, as if my life depended on it. Very few times have I been forced or trapped… as in this situation to be there in the first place. So what I have learned to do out of desperation over many years when trapped in a situation like this one is abide my time until the tuning stops. The audience is now comfortable seated. The conductor raises both arms baton in hand and jump starts the musicians.
Then I would set my face in what I hope radiated an appearance of intelligent appreciation. I would close both ears from the inside, tuck my palm under my chin for support, usually my right palm as I am right handed. Next, I begin the process of what I call “first stage dream land submergence.” Practiced as I am, it takes but a moment, and to those near buy who happen to look my way will hopefully observe, a contemplating lover of the arts with his eye lids drooping about half way open. But on this particular performance I must have dazed out. Suddenly, the whole room was standing up applauding. I had slept through the movement. I quickly stood up embarrassed and scared that I likely had been snoring or worse recognized for a fool. Just then I heard a jolly voice on my right say,
“You’re not found of Christmas music”
I knew as much about Christmas music as I know about flying reindeer or the North Pole, but I did know the most famous face in the whole world… the stock of white hair, ruddy cheeks, stocking cap and a big round belly. I was standing next to Santa Clause.
“Well,” I said hesitating uncomfortably. I had been asked a casual question. All I had to do was be equally casual in my reply. But I could see the look in my neighbor’s extraordinary eyes behind his glasses that their owner was not merely going through the perfunctory duties of elementary politeness. Regardless of what value I place on my part in the verbal exchange with Santa his part mattered very much. Above all, Santa was not a man, to whom you told a lie, definitely not this close to Christmas.
“I don’t know anything about Christmas Symphony music.” I blubbered out. “I’ve never much paid any attention.” A look of perplexed astonishment washed across his rosy mobile face.
“You have never heard Bing Crosby sing white Christmas?” He made it sound as though I had said, “I’d never taken a bath.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want to like White Christmas” I replied hastily. “It’s just that I’m tone deaf, or almost tone deaf. A look of concern shone in the wise old face.
“Please,” he said abruptly, “You will come with me?” He took my arm with one hand and at the same time placed his famous pipe at the side of his mouth as we walked down the aisle. As he led me across the crowded entry room I kept my glance fixed on the carpet. A rising Murmur of puzzled speculation as to who I was… followed us. Santa paid no attention to it. Resolutely he led me upstairs. On the floor above he opened the door into a toy-filled work shop drew me in and shut the door.
“Now,” he said with a small, troubled smile. “You will tell me, please how long you have felt this way about music?”
“All my life. The fact that I don’t like Xmas music doesn’t matter. I wish you would go back downstairs, and enjoy the music.” He shook his head and scowled,
“Tell me, is there any kind of music that you do like?”
“Well, I like songs that have words and the kind of music where I can follow the tune.” I
murmured. He smiled and nodded,
“You can give me an example perhaps?”
“Well, I like White Xmas by Bing Crosby.” I ventured. He nodded briskly.
“Good!” He went to a corner of the room, opened a phonograph and started pulling out records from a cabinet. At last he beamed. “Ahhhh… Bing Crosby “White Christmas,”
He put the needle on Bing’s record. In a moment the toy shop was filled with the relaxed lilting strains of White Xmas. He beamed at me, as he kept time with the stem of his pipe. After four of five phrases he stopped the phonograph.
“Now will you tell me, please, what you have just heard? “
The simplest answer seemed to be to just sing the lines. I began quietly trying desperately to stay on tune… I’m dreaming of a white Christmas... Just like the ones I used to know… where tree tops glisten and children listen…to hear sleigh bells in the sky……The expression on Santa face was like the sunrise.
“You see! You do have an ear. “ He cried with delight. After I finished. I mumbled something like,
“This being one of my favorite songs, I had heard hundreds of times so it didn’t really prove anything.”
“Nonsense!!! It proves everything! Do you remember your first arithmetic lesson in 1st grade? Suppose, at your very first contact with numbers your teacher had ordered you to work out a problem in, say, long division. Could you have done so?”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“Precisely!” Santa made a triumphant wave again with his pipe stem. “It would have been impossible and you would have reacted in panic. You would have closed your mind to long division. As a result, because of that one small mistake by your teacher, it is possible for your whole life… you would be denied the beauty of long division, and so on and so forth. Who knows what you would become at that impressionable.” The pipe stem went up and out in another wave.
“But on the 1st day no teacher would be so foolish. You would start with elementary things…then, when you had acquired skill with the simplest problems you would be led up to long division…so it is with music.” Santa picked up the Bing Crosby record. “This simple, charming song is like simple addition or subtraction. You have mastered it. Next I was asked to do “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
“Now we go on to something more complicated.” He found another record and set needle on it to go. The golden voice of John McCormack singing “The Trumpeter” filled the room. After a few stanzas he stopped the phonograph.
“So! You will sing that back to me please?” I did…with a good deal of self-consciousness but for me a surprising degree of accuracy. Santa stared at me with a look on his face that I had seen only once before. That was on the face of my father the day I received my diploma from Hi School.
“Excellent! Wonderful! Now this! Caruso! I managed to reproduce an approximation of the sounds of that famous tenor, and a few more followed. I could not shake my feeling of awe over the way this most famous man, into whose company I had been thrown by chance, was completely preoccupied by what we were doing, as though I was his sole concern.
He came at last to recordings of music without words, which I was instructed to reproduce by humming. When I reached for a high note his mouth opened and his head went back as to help me attain what seemed unattainable. Evidently I came close enough in my humming lesson, for he suddenly turned off the phonograph. “Now young man, He said, putting his arm through mine pipe in mouth, “We are ready for the family Christmas program downstairs As we returned to our seats in the drawing room, the players were tuning up for the final selection. Santa smiled and gave me a reassuring pat on the knee. “Just allow yourself to listen. That is all.”
For me it wasn’t really all. Without the effort he had just poured out for a total stranger I would never have heard, as I did that night for first time in my life, “Sheep May Safely Graze.” I have heard it many times since. I don’t think I shall ever tire of it, because I never listen to it alone. I sit beside a man with a shock of white hair and flowing beard, a pipe clamped between his teeth, and yes, all that’s contained in those eyes in their extraordinary warmth, beaming through the wonder of the universe.
When the concert was finished I added my genuine applause to that of the others patrons. Suddenly our hostess confronted us. “I’m so sorry, Santa, she said with an icy glare at me,
“That you missed so much of the performance tonight."
Santa jumped hastily to his feet. “Please don’t be sorry my young friend here and I were engaged in the greatest activity of which man is capable” She looked puzzled.
“Really?” she said. “And what is that?’
Santa smiled and put his arm across my shoulder and he uttered what for me is in endless debt. “The two of us together opened up a fragment of beautiful Christen Christmas Music.”
And then Santa turning to his right he said, “Let me introduce you to my very personal friend,
JESUS CHRIST OUR SAVIER.”
MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAY THE LORD BLESS EACH AND ALL!!!
KARL WALLACE to read more Karl Wallace stories go to: karlwallaceblog.blogspot.com MR CHRISTMAS “STAN THE MAN” JACOBSON
When I was a very young man, just beginning to make my way, I was invited to dine. It all took place on Christmas Eve at the home of a distinguished New York philanthropist. After dinner our hostess led us to an enormous drawing room. Other guests were pouring in, and my eyes set on two unnerving sights: Servants were arranging small gilt chairs in long, straight rows. Up front, leaning against the wall, were musical instruments? Apparently we were “in for” an evening of chamber music. I use the phrase “in for” because music meant nothing to me. I am almost tone deaf. Only with great effort can I carry the simplest tune. Long hair music to me is no more than squeaky string violins, and fun little piccolos, trumpets clarinets and such. Drummers clash the symbols, pounding on their timpani drums, gongs, gourds, and triangles cow bells, whatever. Over and Over all night long. It’ all guaranteed to wave you to sleep then wake you up all night long. I avoid attending any symphony consorts, as if my life depended on it. Very few times have I been forced or trapped… as in this situation to be there in the first place. So what I have learned to do out of desperation over many years when trapped in a situation like this one is abide my time until the tuning stops. The audience is now comfortable seated. The conductor raises both arms baton in hand and jump starts the musicians.
Then I would set my face in what I hope radiated an appearance of intelligent appreciation. I would close both ears from the inside, tuck my palm under my chin for support, usually my right palm as I am right handed. Next, I begin the process of what I call “first stage dream land submergence.” Practiced as I am, it takes but a moment, and to those near buy who happen to look my way will hopefully observe, a contemplating lover of the arts with his eye lids drooping about half way open. But on this particular performance I must have dazed out. Suddenly, the whole room was standing up applauding. I had slept through the movement. I quickly stood up embarrassed and scared that I likely had been snoring or worse recognized for a fool. Just then I heard a jolly voice on my right say,
“You’re not found of Christmas music”
I knew as much about Christmas music as I know about flying reindeer or the North Pole, but I did know the most famous face in the whole world… the stock of white hair, ruddy cheeks, stocking cap and a big round belly. I was standing next to Santa Clause.
“Well,” I said hesitating uncomfortably. I had been asked a casual question. All I had to do was be equally casual in my reply. But I could see the look in my neighbor’s extraordinary eyes behind his glasses that their owner was not merely going through the perfunctory duties of elementary politeness. Regardless of what value I place on my part in the verbal exchange with Santa his part mattered very much. Above all, Santa was not a man, to whom you told a lie, definitely not this close to Christmas.
“I don’t know anything about Christmas Symphony music.” I blubbered out. “I’ve never much paid any attention.” A look of perplexed astonishment washed across his rosy mobile face.
“You have never heard Bing Crosby sing white Christmas?” He made it sound as though I had said, “I’d never taken a bath.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want to like White Christmas” I replied hastily. “It’s just that I’m tone deaf, or almost tone deaf. A look of concern shone in the wise old face.
“Please,” he said abruptly, “You will come with me?” He took my arm with one hand and at the same time placed his famous pipe at the side of his mouth as we walked down the aisle. As he led me across the crowded entry room I kept my glance fixed on the carpet. A rising Murmur of puzzled speculation as to who I was… followed us. Santa paid no attention to it. Resolutely he led me upstairs. On the floor above he opened the door into a toy-filled work shop drew me in and shut the door.
“Now,” he said with a small, troubled smile. “You will tell me, please how long you have felt this way about music?”
“All my life. The fact that I don’t like Xmas music doesn’t matter. I wish you would go back downstairs, and enjoy the music.” He shook his head and scowled,
“Tell me, is there any kind of music that you do like?”
“Well, I like songs that have words and the kind of music where I can follow the tune.” I
murmured. He smiled and nodded,
“You can give me an example perhaps?”
“Well, I like White Xmas by Bing Crosby.” I ventured. He nodded briskly.
“Good!” He went to a corner of the room, opened a phonograph and started pulling out records from a cabinet. At last he beamed. “Ahhhh… Bing Crosby “White Christmas,”
He put the needle on Bing’s record. In a moment the toy shop was filled with the relaxed lilting strains of White Xmas. He beamed at me, as he kept time with the stem of his pipe. After four of five phrases he stopped the phonograph.
“Now will you tell me, please, what you have just heard? “
The simplest answer seemed to be to just sing the lines. I began quietly trying desperately to stay on tune… I’m dreaming of a white Christmas... Just like the ones I used to know… where tree tops glisten and children listen…to hear sleigh bells in the sky……The expression on Santa face was like the sunrise.
“You see! You do have an ear. “ He cried with delight. After I finished. I mumbled something like,
“This being one of my favorite songs, I had heard hundreds of times so it didn’t really prove anything.”
“Nonsense!!! It proves everything! Do you remember your first arithmetic lesson in 1st grade? Suppose, at your very first contact with numbers your teacher had ordered you to work out a problem in, say, long division. Could you have done so?”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“Precisely!” Santa made a triumphant wave again with his pipe stem. “It would have been impossible and you would have reacted in panic. You would have closed your mind to long division. As a result, because of that one small mistake by your teacher, it is possible for your whole life… you would be denied the beauty of long division, and so on and so forth. Who knows what you would become at that impressionable.” The pipe stem went up and out in another wave.
“But on the 1st day no teacher would be so foolish. You would start with elementary things…then, when you had acquired skill with the simplest problems you would be led up to long division…so it is with music.” Santa picked up the Bing Crosby record. “This simple, charming song is like simple addition or subtraction. You have mastered it. Next I was asked to do “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
“Now we go on to something more complicated.” He found another record and set needle on it to go. The golden voice of John McCormack singing “The Trumpeter” filled the room. After a few stanzas he stopped the phonograph.
“So! You will sing that back to me please?” I did…with a good deal of self-consciousness but for me a surprising degree of accuracy. Santa stared at me with a look on his face that I had seen only once before. That was on the face of my father the day I received my diploma from Hi School.
“Excellent! Wonderful! Now this! Caruso! I managed to reproduce an approximation of the sounds of that famous tenor, and a few more followed. I could not shake my feeling of awe over the way this most famous man, into whose company I had been thrown by chance, was completely preoccupied by what we were doing, as though I was his sole concern.
He came at last to recordings of music without words, which I was instructed to reproduce by humming. When I reached for a high note his mouth opened and his head went back as to help me attain what seemed unattainable. Evidently I came close enough in my humming lesson, for he suddenly turned off the phonograph. “Now young man, He said, putting his arm through mine pipe in mouth, “We are ready for the family Christmas program downstairs As we returned to our seats in the drawing room, the players were tuning up for the final selection. Santa smiled and gave me a reassuring pat on the knee. “Just allow yourself to listen. That is all.”
For me it wasn’t really all. Without the effort he had just poured out for a total stranger I would never have heard, as I did that night for first time in my life, “Sheep May Safely Graze.” I have heard it many times since. I don’t think I shall ever tire of it, because I never listen to it alone. I sit beside a man with a shock of white hair and flowing beard, a pipe clamped between his teeth, and yes, all that’s contained in those eyes in their extraordinary warmth, beaming through the wonder of the universe.
When the concert was finished I added my genuine applause to that of the others patrons. Suddenly our hostess confronted us. “I’m so sorry, Santa, she said with an icy glare at me,
“That you missed so much of the performance tonight."
Santa jumped hastily to his feet. “Please don’t be sorry my young friend here and I were engaged in the greatest activity of which man is capable” She looked puzzled.
“Really?” she said. “And what is that?’
Santa smiled and put his arm across my shoulder and he uttered what for me is in endless debt. “The two of us together opened up a fragment of beautiful Christen Christmas Music.”
And then Santa turning to his right he said, “Let me introduce you to my very personal friend,
JESUS CHRIST OUR SAVIER.”
MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAY THE LORD BLESS EACH AND ALL!!!
KARL WALLACE to read more Karl Wallace stories go to: karlwallaceblog.blogspot.com MR CHRISTMAS “STAN THE MAN” JACOBSON
