DUANE SHERRILLEditor

For many people the memories of Christmases past bring forth a warm cavalcade of images fit for airing in a Hallmark holiday special as you sit around the comfy fireplace sipping a cup hot wassail while listening to Perry Como’s “White Christmas”.

However, for others like me, those images are more akin to the WKRP holiday turkey drop where a Cincinnati shopping center was bombed with live turkeys as witnessed and chronicled live, on-air by Buckeye News Hawk Award Winner Les Nessman. “God as my witness, I could have sworn turkeys could fly.” If you haven’t seen this nugget of uproarious humor, Google it. It’s worth three minutes for a laugh. By the way, what I’m about to share with you is a completely true story although some names were changed to protect my liability.

As a young child I was terrified of Santa. You couldn’t even threaten me with candy canning to get on Kris Kringle’s knee for a Polaroid. Ho. Ho. No. I was scared of him even if his belly did shake like a bowl full of jelly. I don’t know if it was the loud, boisterous “what do you want for Christmas little boy” or the “he knows when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake” stalker-type thing. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t touch Santa with a 39-and-a-half-foot pole. That is until the greedy Duane took over around age seven or so.

“He brings presents, you say?” when I learned that Santa would come down the chimney on Christmas Eve to deliver presents to good girls and boys. Of course, I immediately had two problems with this Yule Tide scenario. First, we had no chimney so Santa would need some keen burglary skills to get in. And second, and most importantly, there has, even to this day, never been a calendar year in which I was a “good boy” or even remotely qualified for such a designation. However, one thing I was, even as a child, was smooth. Let me just confess as to my motivation. I was in my cowboy phase and I really wanted a pony. What’s a cowboy without a horse?

“Son, we live in the city,” my dad said when I straight up asked for a pony. “Where are you gonna put a horse?”

This logic fell on deaf ears. I knew I’d need some help and that Santa guy seemed like my best bet. Therefore, I repressed my primal fear of Santa and asked my dad to take me to see Santa. I figured, even if he had me on the naughty list that I could talk my way out of it or, if not, convince St. Nick that he had me all confused with some other kid. Either way, I wanted a pony.

So we arrived at a packed parking lot at the shopping center in my hometown. There must have been a couple thousand turned out that cold afternoon, all waiting, I assumed to see Santa arrive on his sleigh. However, much to my surprise, there came the sound of rotors. It was no sleigh at all. Santa was arriving in a helicopter. So much for the whole Rudolph thing.

The crowd stood in anticipation as Santa ducked under the still spinning blades and began approaching the crowd. I was perched atop my dad’s shoulders so I had a bird’s eye view of the whole thing. You could almost call me a witness to the crime that was about to happen.

As Santa entered the crowd, he began to pull out candy from his bag, handing it to people in the crowd. It was calm for about 30 seconds until … it happened. Someone got greedy. Not a kid. A grown man. He plunged his hand into the bag and pulled out a handful. This triggered a mob rules mentality as everyone began to rip at the poor guy, wresting the candy bag from his shoulder and nearly ripping off his coat. Santa turned to retreat back to the helicopter but fly boy had been watching the whole thing and was wanting nothing to do with extracting Santa from hostile territory. I can still recall the pilot shaking his head at Santa as he lifted off, leaving St. Nick to fend for himself.

I’d like to give you a happy ending but, frankly, Santa was consumed by the crowd and I never saw him again. I pray he survived. Where was security? How should I know, I was seven. All I knew was I wasn’t getting his help getting my pony.

But the good news was that I got that pony, well, according to my dad. Unfortunately, when he took me to see the horse “out in the country” a few days later it had mysteriously “jumped the fence” and ran away.

It took me a few years to figure out there was never a pony. Sure, Santa Claus does exist but that pony never did. Like father like son when it comes to being smooth.