Of Course There is a Santa Clause

“The love between a father and his children is one of the greatest treasures in life.”

The indelible memory of Christmas 1966 remains etched in my mind, marking the year when my childhood certainty about the existence of Santa Claus was put to the test. At the tender age of 9, I had grown skeptical, convinced that the elaborate charade orchestrated by my parents, particularly my father, had run its course. Little did I know, they were determined to prolong the enchantment of their youngest son still believing in the magical figure of Santa Claus.

Our family adhered to the cherished tradition of keeping gifts absent from beneath the tree until the dawn of Christmas morning. Undeterred by my newfound skepticism, my parents persisted in their efforts to preserve the illusion of Santa’s clandestine nocturnal visit. “Come on, Mom, I know there is no Santa. Just put the gifts you got for me under the tree,” I would assert, my youthful confidence on full display. “Richard,” (as she called me) my mother would chime in, her tone suggesting an innocence I found both endearing and exasperating. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she would assert, a phrase that still resonates in my mind today, accompanied by the unwavering declaration, “Of course, there is a Santa Claus.”

As was our custom, Christmas Eve unfolded at my grandfather’s residence on Leeds St in West Philly. The air was filled with the savory aromas of the traditional Italian Feast of the Seven Fishes. Our extended family, spanning a convoluted web of aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant relations many I called Aunt or Uncle who were actually dear friends or third or forth cousins. All gathered in a snug dining room for a night of culinary delights, drinking, lively conversations, and the inevitable crescendo of traditional Italian exuberance, meaning it was really loud in there!  

On that fateful Christmas in 1966, I harbored suspicions that the elaborate ruse was about to unravel. I had deduced that my father, under the cover of night, would sneak back to our home in Drexel Hill to deposit the eagerly awaited gifts. However, Mother Nature had other plans, unleashing one of the century’s most significant northeasters, blanketing Philadelphia with over two feet of snow. It was my introduction to thundersnow, an unexpected symphony accompanying the meteorological spectacle.

The snowfall brought West Philly to a standstill, rendering the streets impassable. You could not make out where the cars were the snow was so deep. Our return home, initially planned for Christmas morning, was delayed until the 26th. I relished the journey back, teasing and questioning my parents about Santa’s ability to deliver gifts despite the meteorological chaos. Even my older sister, then 14, couldn’t stifle her laughter.

As our 1957 Plymouth Station wagon navigated through the snow-laden streets, my anticipation reached a crescendo. The realization that my father couldn’t have driven home to execute the traditional gift delivery fueled my excitement. Upon our arrival, the house was cocooned in untouched snow, a pristine canvas undisturbed by footprints or signs of intruders. We had to shovel our way inside, my sister and mother remaining in the car as my father and I carved a path to the door. As we entered, my jaw dropped in disbelief—under the tree lay a trove of gifts, all adorned with the magical label “From Santa.” “What?” I exclaimed. Santa?

For years to come, my mother delighted in recounting the tale of that snowy Christmas, reveling in the fact that I had, against all odds, believed in Santa for yet another year. It wasn’t until two years later that the truth emerged—a testament to the enduring love and commitment of my father. On that snowy Christmas Eve, he had walked the four miles from West Philly to Drexel Hill after I had drifted into slumber, braving the blizzard to ensure the magic of Santa lived on for his youngest son. Such selfless acts were emblematic of the exemplary fatherhood that shaped my upbringing.