I'm not certain if Christmas leaves a lasting, positive impression on kids. The whole concept of "being good will bear material fruit" is fraught with psychological dysfunction. There is no life lesson in this. If I'm nice to my mother, I'm not about to get a raise at work, or walk outside Christmas morning and discover a Porsche 911 waiting for me.
And, I cannot remember a single connection to my "being good" as a kid, and the bounty I reaped on Christmas day.
To the contrary, my first crack in the eternally youthful case of "Is there a Santa Claus?" came as a result of my having a remarkably bad year - behavior-wise - and the loot I walked away with on the fateful day.
The chicken coop caper
Santa Claus brought me my first bike that year. My older sister became a teenager earlier that year. The Christmas before, my next-door neighbor - a couple years my senior - got a pellet gun. The year before that, he got a Daisy air rifle BB gun.
There's a corollary. Hang in there.
I had been set up. There was no way a lad of my age could clear these pubescent hurdles and remain in good stead with the fat guy in a red outfit and a sleigh-full of future fervor.
Naturally, true to my childhood (and now adulthood) I caved in.
Early in the year that Santa brought me the bicycle of my dreams, I was walking off into the field behind my house with my older friend, wearing two pairs of jeans, a heavy coat, a skull cap with goggles - and cradling that Daisy air rifle. We were off to take on the kids from up the street in The Battle of the Abandoned Chicken Coop - a campaign that would stretch over a grueling two-year period.
Tex-Mex, no sox
The chicken coop was dilapidated nearly beyond recognition. But it had one terrific feature that remained intact. Above a ledge on the inside there were ventilation holes that opened onto the field, looking more like the Alamo than any chicken house.
We alternated between Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie, and the army of Santa Ana - my buddy and I against the foreigners from up the street.
If you were the Texans, you'd defend the Alamo, firing out from the peep holes. If you were the Mexicans, you put siege to the fortress.
And you shot at each other. Honest. That's what the padded clothes were for. We took aim, fired, and occasionally found our mark.
If you were hit you had to go down for the count of 10 before getting back up. It was astoundingly dangerous, but we were immune (read: oblivious). It was worse for me, as I had a borrowed weapon - not being allowed even to have an air rifle in the first place.
I suffered a few flesh wounds, the worst being an embedded BB in my ankle. (Two pairs of socks would have helped.)
It's called extortion
As for my sis, she started dating. That was OK for her, I suspect, but it was a cash cow for this kid.
I took bribes. I'd get lost for periods of time the duration of which was directly proportional to the size of the payoff.
It may not have looked good in the eyes of ol' Santa, but I took care of that by stopping the misbegotten activity a couple days before Christmas.
A shining example
Despite that particularly bad year, on Christmas morning, there was bicycle No. 1, my first - a Schwinn, of course - with an emblem of the world on the front, red-white-and-blue things hanging from the handlebar grips, white sidewall tires, AND, a light.
You would think that shooting guns at friends and cashing in on my sister's romances would have, at least, eliminated the light.
Forget country-livin'
So what did I learn? First of all, this Santa thing was overrated. It had nothing to do with "being good."
Second, I found out there was no worldly connection between behavior and material goods. Republicans would later bear that out.
And I discovered that, at least at that age, my sister had undeniably naive boy friends. My own behavior would later bear it out that all teenaged boys are exactly that.
Lastly, I would determine in later years that it was more fun to be Santa Claus than to believe in him. Proof: my son got his bike, and we never lived anywhere near a chicken coop.
By Larry Berteau
