When I was very young, my mom would take me downtown to visit with Santa Claus. I always thought we were going to the real North Pole (which I called “the Near Pole”). Downtown Houston was an awe-inspiring place to a four year old. The buildings were so big and the streets were so busy! Very different from suburban Overbrook. Mama and I would head downtown, all wrapped up in our winter coats and park in one of the utterly fascinating parking garages. It was like climbing a mountain in your car: you drove up and up and up to find a parking spot. Then you rode an elevator back down to the street level.
The place she took me to see Santa was the luxurious Foley’s department store. Part of the journey included a trip out onto the chilly streets to walk by the Christmas displays in the store windows. Animated Christmas elves and reindeer would nod and blink from their artificial snowbound winter scenes. Peppermint candy cane fences and sparkly sugarplums abounded in these small vignettes. I was always quite enchanted with them, and it was worth the blast of icy cold wind howling down the concrete and steel canyon walls of Main street.
Once inside, we began the wonderful excursion up to the fourth floor of Foleys. We had to pass through rack after rack of beautiful clothes, exotic colors and fabrics of all kinds, all at eye level for a child. I can still remember the smells and excitement I would experience when we entered that store: dozens of shoppers pushing in off the streets, tightly bundled in woolen coats and sweaters, sometimes lightly dusted with sleet or ice, bringing in with them little bursts of cold, fresh air to mometarily dispel the heady cloud of fragrances that hung over the perfume and makeup counters. There were loudspeaker announcements from the PA system heralding sales and specials, and above it all, Christmas music played enticingly, as seductive to a 4-year old as a siren’s song, luring us towards the holy grail of our quest—Santa Claus.
I held tightly to my mother’s hand as she wove us in and out of the crowds of shoppers and various departments until we arrived at the very center of the store and there before us rose the magic escalators. I loved the escalators. Better than the ferris wheel at the fair, better than the pony rides at the park, they were the best attraction at any department store when we went shopping. Imagine the wonder to a small child of being able to rise magically up, up, up above the crowds of shoppers below, becoming taller and taller than everyone else, just like Alice in Wonderland.
[In fact, I loved riding the escalators so much that my mother tells the story of one time when she “lost” me inside of Joske’s, another Houston department store. I was about four years old at the time. My mother was frantically searching the store for me, and then she glanced up and saw a big red bow just peeping over the top of the escalator rail going up and up. It was me, of course, barely big enough to hold onto the rail, but having a grand time riding the “magic carpet ride”!]
While part of the excitement of going to see Santa Claus was definitely wrapped up in the thrill of getting to ride the escalators non-stop straight up to the fourth floor, the real treat was the absolute conversion of a portion of that cavernous fourth floor into the North Pole. The staff at Foley’s really outdid themselves at Christmas time. An entire winter wonderland had been set up, complete with sidewalks and tunnels through artificial snowbanks that winked and shimmered with gaily colored lights and glistening diamond drop snowflakes. More animated characters—elves busily making toys in their workshops, oversized ballerina dolls and toy soldiers turning like marionettes, reindeer “grazing” on bales of hay—greeted us along our journey, promising the most wonderful delights to a four-year old child who fervently “believed”. Christmas tunes carried in the air and the excitement just built and built.
And finally, after winding our way through the entire wonderful maze, we approached the most wonderful sight of all: Santa Claus. Santa was always seated on his golden throne, as godlike as Zeus on Mt. Olympus. One of Santa helpers, a beautiful lady elf in a green velvet skirt and red tights would come to take your hand and lead to you sit in Santa’s lap.
When it was your turn, of course, you had to be very brave and actually leave your mother behind at the gate, but the lure of seeing Santa was a very powerful motivator. Sometimes the children would cry—if they didn’t like being separated from their mothers—and sometimes siblings would be taken up in pairs or trios—so their mom could just pay for one group photograph—but mostly we went up one by one.
Once on Santa’s lap, things moved very quickly. The lady elf retreated to a camera, the bulb flashed with a loud pop! and almost before you could recover from the spots in front of your eyes, Santa would ask what you wanted for Christmas in a very gruff voice. I always got stage fright at this point and could never remember my list. I remember being so shy! I wouldn’t cry, but I would sit on Santa’s lap and my mind would go blank. I couldn’t remember a single thing I had planned to tell Santa I wanted for Christmas. Fortunately my mom was always standing just a little ways off and she would prompt me from the sidelines:
“You wanted some dishes, and a Chatty Kathy, and record player, remember?”
Oh, yes, of course. With a great whoosh of relief, the words would come tumbling out. Santa would remind me to be a good girl, give me a little pat on the back and a lollipop from the big red velvet bag at his side, and down I would go. Duty done, I was free to tromp down the descending ramp and into the waiting and proud arms of my mother.
The place she took me to see Santa was the luxurious Foley’s department store. Part of the journey included a trip out onto the chilly streets to walk by the Christmas displays in the store windows. Animated Christmas elves and reindeer would nod and blink from their artificial snowbound winter scenes. Peppermint candy cane fences and sparkly sugarplums abounded in these small vignettes. I was always quite enchanted with them, and it was worth the blast of icy cold wind howling down the concrete and steel canyon walls of Main street.
Once inside, we began the wonderful excursion up to the fourth floor of Foleys. We had to pass through rack after rack of beautiful clothes, exotic colors and fabrics of all kinds, all at eye level for a child. I can still remember the smells and excitement I would experience when we entered that store: dozens of shoppers pushing in off the streets, tightly bundled in woolen coats and sweaters, sometimes lightly dusted with sleet or ice, bringing in with them little bursts of cold, fresh air to mometarily dispel the heady cloud of fragrances that hung over the perfume and makeup counters. There were loudspeaker announcements from the PA system heralding sales and specials, and above it all, Christmas music played enticingly, as seductive to a 4-year old as a siren’s song, luring us towards the holy grail of our quest—Santa Claus.
I held tightly to my mother’s hand as she wove us in and out of the crowds of shoppers and various departments until we arrived at the very center of the store and there before us rose the magic escalators. I loved the escalators. Better than the ferris wheel at the fair, better than the pony rides at the park, they were the best attraction at any department store when we went shopping. Imagine the wonder to a small child of being able to rise magically up, up, up above the crowds of shoppers below, becoming taller and taller than everyone else, just like Alice in Wonderland.
[In fact, I loved riding the escalators so much that my mother tells the story of one time when she “lost” me inside of Joske’s, another Houston department store. I was about four years old at the time. My mother was frantically searching the store for me, and then she glanced up and saw a big red bow just peeping over the top of the escalator rail going up and up. It was me, of course, barely big enough to hold onto the rail, but having a grand time riding the “magic carpet ride”!]
While part of the excitement of going to see Santa Claus was definitely wrapped up in the thrill of getting to ride the escalators non-stop straight up to the fourth floor, the real treat was the absolute conversion of a portion of that cavernous fourth floor into the North Pole. The staff at Foley’s really outdid themselves at Christmas time. An entire winter wonderland had been set up, complete with sidewalks and tunnels through artificial snowbanks that winked and shimmered with gaily colored lights and glistening diamond drop snowflakes. More animated characters—elves busily making toys in their workshops, oversized ballerina dolls and toy soldiers turning like marionettes, reindeer “grazing” on bales of hay—greeted us along our journey, promising the most wonderful delights to a four-year old child who fervently “believed”. Christmas tunes carried in the air and the excitement just built and built.
And finally, after winding our way through the entire wonderful maze, we approached the most wonderful sight of all: Santa Claus. Santa was always seated on his golden throne, as godlike as Zeus on Mt. Olympus. One of Santa helpers, a beautiful lady elf in a green velvet skirt and red tights would come to take your hand and lead to you sit in Santa’s lap.
When it was your turn, of course, you had to be very brave and actually leave your mother behind at the gate, but the lure of seeing Santa was a very powerful motivator. Sometimes the children would cry—if they didn’t like being separated from their mothers—and sometimes siblings would be taken up in pairs or trios—so their mom could just pay for one group photograph—but mostly we went up one by one.
Once on Santa’s lap, things moved very quickly. The lady elf retreated to a camera, the bulb flashed with a loud pop! and almost before you could recover from the spots in front of your eyes, Santa would ask what you wanted for Christmas in a very gruff voice. I always got stage fright at this point and could never remember my list. I remember being so shy! I wouldn’t cry, but I would sit on Santa’s lap and my mind would go blank. I couldn’t remember a single thing I had planned to tell Santa I wanted for Christmas. Fortunately my mom was always standing just a little ways off and she would prompt me from the sidelines:
“You wanted some dishes, and a Chatty Kathy, and record player, remember?”
Oh, yes, of course. With a great whoosh of relief, the words would come tumbling out. Santa would remind me to be a good girl, give me a little pat on the back and a lollipop from the big red velvet bag at his side, and down I would go. Duty done, I was free to tromp down the descending ramp and into the waiting and proud arms of my mother.
A few days later, my picture with Santa would arrive in the mail, and my mother would proudly display it as part of our overall Christmas decorations for that year.
Of course, once you had been to see Santa, the pressure to "be good for goodness' sake" was on. Santa had your list, he knew what you wanted, and if you messed up between your visit and Christmas Eve, you knew what you would find on Christmas morning: nothing but lumps of coal in your stocking. And somehow, even though I had known plenty of children to misbehave, I had never personally heard of anyone who failed to receive their presents from Santa, so he must have been a pretty forgiving fellow.
Of course, once you had been to see Santa, the pressure to "be good for goodness' sake" was on. Santa had your list, he knew what you wanted, and if you messed up between your visit and Christmas Eve, you knew what you would find on Christmas morning: nothing but lumps of coal in your stocking. And somehow, even though I had known plenty of children to misbehave, I had never personally heard of anyone who failed to receive their presents from Santa, so he must have been a pretty forgiving fellow.
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