(no subject)
Belief is a tricky thing. It can be so easy to lose. But sometimes, especially if you really, down-deep, want to believe, it can be easy to get back . . .
A bit over a year ago, around Thanksgiving 2006, Darling Daughter’s mother told me that DD - who was 7, a month short of turning 8 - that they’d been discussing Santa Claus. And the girl told her mom: “In my mind I don’t believe in Santa any more. But my heart still wants to believe.”
(This is unbearably cute, and yet hardly unusual. This is just how she is. And who she is.)
On my next visit to see her in Milwaukee, early in December last year, I took DD to the Milwaukee Museum.
When we go to the museum, just like when we go to the zoo, she has a story for everything. She’s very imaginative, and she’s always thinking. She’s also talking all the time - Heaven knows where she gets that - because she wants to share what she’s thinking. She pointed out to me in the diorama of bison and Indians which buffalo was the daddy, in the family coming around the rocks.
“He’s the biggest one, on the outside, see? And he was just talking to the mommy about the weather, and he’s just about to see the Indian up there on the ridge, and when he does, he’ll warn the baby, and all three of them will run over that way and get away.” She could also tell what each of the Indians on horseback were thinking as they chased buffalo off a cliff, and which buffalo were going to survive, and which one was crying because it just lost a parent. She’ll be a writer, mark my words - everybody had a back story.
On this visit to the museum, they were doing several seasonal special things - the historical cobblestone street was decorated for an old-fashioned Christmas, and the houses of the world were showing how other countries trimmed trees, fed their families traditional holiday fare, etc. (“See how the little brother is feeding the baby? I bet it’s something he doesn’t like, but the baby likes it, so the baby gets his too.”) A series of local school’s choirs were singing by the butterfly exhibit that Saturday. And somewhere, there was supposed to be Santa Claus.
Well, we never did see Santa (or an old-fashioned St. Nicholas, I forget which), but we did see a couple of Santa’s elves walking around. But these were no pair of teenagers walking around, smiling and moving on. No, this was a pair of grown-ups, and they had a whole shtick worked out.
The man, 30s and balding under his green cap (both were all in green, with tunics and tights and usual paraphernalia), held a large binder of computer paper. After chatting for a minute or two about whether she’d been good, etc., he asked her name. Then he opened the book wide and thumbed through it rapidly. I could see it was columns of names and words and figures, though I couldn’t see anything too clearly. Suddenly -
“Ah ha!” he says, and moves the book so I can see the page, but DD can’t. “There she is, see? Right there in the ‘good’ column.” I quickly agreed - there was her name, all right.
DD’s eyes got larger and larger at this display. The elf explained that he couldn’t let her see, since some of her presents were listed next to her name. “But your dad may be interested to know some of what you’re getting. What do you think of that?” he asked me.
I said she must have been very good. “Why, look at that! Says here you just might be getting those Littlest Pet Shops you were asking for . . .” I said. She clapped her hands, in absolute glee.
I was having a ball. “What does this star next to her name mean?” I asked the elf. Well, naturally, that meant she was extra good, which was what I figured he’d say, and would probably deserve extra presents.
“Extra good, huh?” asked the lady elf, who had reddish hair and was taller than the man, even an inch or so taller than I am. She asked where DD lived. DD said Milwaukee of course, and I clarified it was the northwest area, the neighborhoods near Menomonee Falls. The elf’s eyes lit up, and they both started skimming through another section of the great big book.
“We don’t yet, do we?” “No, I don’t think we do,” they said in excited conference. And the woman plunged her head into a sack she carried, that sounded like it had dozens of coins in it. Instead, what she came out with was … a key. Just a discarded key, that could have opened any house door, or car door, or locker or safe deposit box once upon a time, just like all the others in the bag - and each one had a colorful ribbon tied to it.
“THIS,” she said, “is a magic key.” DD focused on it, inches from her nose, and she was positively vibrating. This was all so delicious. “We have a job for you, if you think you can handle it.” DD nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“In each town, we need helpers to hold onto the special magic key for their neighborhood. And we don’t have a key holder for your area yet! When Santa gets to your house, he’ll pick up this magic key, and then, if there are any houses in your town that don’t have chimneys, he’ll be able to use this key to open any door in the area to leave his presents. Now, this key won’t work for you on any door, but on Christmas Eve, it will work for Santa. This is a big responsibility - some of the kids in your neighborhood will only get their presents because of your help. Can you do that for us, and for Santa?”
No questing knight’s fingers ever took a Grail in hand with more awe and solemn duty than DD’s as she took that key in both hands and held it close.
It was two hours later that we finally left the museum and headed home, but the discussion for most of the car ride was about the key. “I think they made a good choice, you know, because I really like responsibility, don’t I? And I like helping people. I’m so excited! I’m going to be helping. I’m very responsible!”
And at home. “Mom! Grandma! Guess what! Santa’s elves gave me a JOB! And a KEY!!”
The rest of December, I checked in from time to time, from a couple states away, wondering how things were going. If the key had been forgotten. It wasn’t discussed every day, or even every other day - but it was not forgotten. Mom decided it should be outside the door, to make it easy for Santa, since their house didn’t have a chimney either. Grandma suggested they put it inside one of those fake rocks, so somebody didn’t walk off with the magic key before Santa could use it - and they’d write a letter to Santa telling him where to find it.
DD took her responsibility seriously. And it worked - Santa left her a nice note on Christmas morning, her mother told me, thanking her for her help. And if any more proof were needed? She really did get all the Littlest Pet Shops she’d been wanting.
And belief won out for one more year.