A Northerner’s Christmas - Southern Style

A Northerner’s Christmas - Southern Style

Mary Ann Wray © 2023

 

Hello there! Please allow me to tell you a true Christmas story that came to mind as I watched the Macy’s Day Thanksgiving Parade for the 60th plus time this year. Both of my folks were born and raised in New York. We lived in Lyndhurst, New Jersey from about 1957 until my dad was transferred to Richmond, Virginia in 1961. Naturally, we had northern accents that set us apart from most native Virginians. My mother’s accent was more pronounced; she was born and raised in Manhattan. My dad was born and raised in Haverstraw, New York in Rockland County about an hour’s drive from the big city.

Just about every person we met after moving from New Jersey, to “down south” as my dad referred to Virginia, would ask where we were from in their sweet southern drawl. My folks loved to imitate their accents, especially the use of “Ya’ll” instead of the simple pronoun “you.” “Yous guys” was the slang for “you” they were accustomed to hearing. My dad said he would NEVER say ‘ya’ll’ in every day conversation but he sure would poke fun atthe southern contraction whenever he was in a humorous mood.  He’d put on an exaggerated southern drawl around friends and family going on and on with sayings like, “Ya’ll come back and see us now hea-yah!” They’d all get a big kick from his antics. He could be such a cut-up.

Back in those days, the Christmas Season didn’t officially begin until the day after Thanksgiving. Dad was very strict about not putting up any decorations until the day after Thanksgiving and we didn’t even put  the Tree up until Christmas Eve. He didn’t care for the commercialism of the Holidays and always made sure we knew exactly how he felt about it! I was six years old when we celebrated our first Christmas ‘down south’. Like most six-year-olds, I still believed in Santa Claus.  The custom in our family, like most others, was to visit Santa Claus every year. In New Jersey, he was usually found in the middle of the toy section of a large department store. This year, we found out Santa was taking visits in a make shift cabin sitting in the middle of the open-air Willow Lawn shopping Center. It became our favorite family shopping center and later on a popular teen hangout among high schoolers.

After questioning my dad why there were so many other Santas visible all the way down West Broad Street, he told me they were just helper elves dressed like Santa for a good reason. He went on to explain that Santa, unlike God, couldn’t be everywhere at once. Therefore, the elves had to help him out. However, he continued, the place where we were going to that night had the real, genuine Santa Clause. Filled with childlike excitement and expectation, I accepted his explanation, thinking my dad was the smartest and wisest man on earth!  

We finally arrived at Willow Lawn and parked as close as we could to Santa’s Hut. While my dad parked our family’s 1960 Ford Comet right next to the Miller and Rhoades Building, my mom blurted out, “By the way, did you know our car has the same name as one of Santa’s reindeer?” Dad added, “Of course: That’s why I bought it!” We all laughed. “How Christmasy our family was,” I thought! Next the three of us scurried from our own “Comet” to get in line and wait to see Santa. Clutching my dad’s hand while the other tightly held a candy cane one of the elves passed out to all the waiting children, I observed every detail I could. Even though we weren’t in New Jersey any longer, everything looked as it should for a ‘real’ Santa to set up shop. The happy anticipation continued to build. When the hostess elf said “Come on in little girl!” my heart began to pound.

Finally, my turn came to meet the “real” Santa face to face and tell him what I wanted for Christmas. As he greeted me, I immediately noticed something odd about the way he talked. At first it frightened me. I looked around for my mom and dad who were standing outside of Santa’s hut. Noticing my bewildered expression, they smiled and waved exuberantly.
Their happy expressions reassured me a little bit but I was still confused. Santa propped me up on his knee then said it was time for our picture. As the photographer snapped the photo, Santa was in the middle of asking me the all-familiar questions: my name, if I was naughty or nice and what I wanted for Christmas. The picture captured the expression on my face and I laugh every time I see it when perusing family photo albums. By this time, I was nervously picking at my fingernails thinking he can’t be the real Santa or even one of his helper elves. I felt betrayed but resolved myself to the fact I was at the point of no return with this Southern Style Santa.

I proceeded to tell him what I would like for Christmas: a Betsy Wetsy, a stroller for me to push her in, a sweater for my mama and a pipe for my dad. He said, “That’s really nice, huuuney,” in that newly recognized southern accent my folks loved to mimic in good fun. “I’m sure Santa can make that happen for you!” he said.  The next question he asked only cast more doubt in my mind. No Santa ever asked me such an unconventional question before. “Where are you from? You have a different accent than folks around here,” he said. “While feeling a bit queezy I answered, “New Jersey.” He then welcomed me to Virginia and hoped I like living there.

I wondered why he wouldn’t know where I was from! After all, if he knew when I was sleeping and when I was awake, why didn’t he know that I moved to Virginia and lived in a different house from last year? I thought Santa was “all-knowing.” I would later learn who really is all knowing. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Skipping as fast as I could to my parents, I reported this uncomfortable experience to them. Feeling very let down by it all I sadly said, “Daddy,  I don’t think he’s the real Santa at al. He wanted to know where I was from, and he didn’t talk like the Santa from last year. He talked REAL funny! Realizing I was about to become an unbeliever, my dad came up a one of his quick-witted answers. In his made up southern drawl he phonated with a serious but slight smirk on his face,”Weeeeell huuuuney, that’s because this here Santa Clause is from the South Pole!” Another almighty answer from my father! Years later my mom told me, that at the exact moment he said this, she had to literally hold her breath to keep her composer. What my father made sense to me but then again, I had never heard of a South Pole Santa before. I kept these thoughts to myself  but I think he sensed my developing skepticism!

A few weeks later on Christmas Eve, Dad made up another tale to help burgeon my weakening faith. He went outside for a minute, probably to take out the trash or something, then came running back in the house. Excitedly, Dad said he saw Santa’s Sleigh flying overhead and they were headed straight to our house. They were so close he could actually see Rudolph’s nose blinking! Doubtful at yet another possible false report, I said, “Daddy, why would Santa fly over OUR house?”   Being the sharp wit, he was, he rebutted, “Santa flew over “OUR” house because we live on the corner of Comet and Rudolph Road. Rudolph wanted to see it for himself, so Santa gave him a Christmas Wish!”

He continued, “You better hurry up if you want to see it before he flies away!” “Not without your shoes and jacket,” Momma yelped. I grabbed my jacket out of the hall closet, slipped on some shoes, and made way to the front door. I was full of doubt and unbelief expecting another disappointment. But I obediently went outside looking in all four directions at the starlit sky and saw nothing. By now my dad was outside yelling, “Can you see him, can you see him?” “No, Daddy, I can’t see him. He’s not here!”  I said totally dejected. “Well, he went that way!” Pointing in the opposite direction of where we stood. I thought to myself. “Daddy, lied. He’s making all this up just like he made up Santa Claus and is trying to be funny again.”  By now I figured out by six-year-old deduction that there was NO Santa. What a letdown. “Christmas will never be the same,” I thought. Up to that point I believed anything and everything my dad told me. Christmas was no exception. His Santa Story totally failed me and my dad’s explanations all proved to be false.

However, Dad soon realized I needed to hear the truth about Christmas and redirect my faith elsewhere. He then told me we celebrate Christmas because it’s Jesus’ Birthday. Christ-mas means Christ’s Birth. He took me to a local religious book-store and had me help him pick out the perfect Nativity Set. As soon as we got home, we assembled it together starting with the manger and finishing it off with my mom laying down fabric fake grass and cotton snow. She topped off the Nativity Set with a small electric light she let me turn on then off every night before we went to bed. Dad took those moments to explain the Christmas story in detail, using every piece of the Nativity set as an illustrative teaching tool. 
Starting with Joseph not being the natural father of Jesus, to Mary being a Virgin who conceived Jesus through the Holy Spirit, he told me the Biblical Christmas Story. He talked about the shepherds watching their flocks by night, the angels heralding Christ’s birth to them. He explained the three Magi bearing gifts and the fact that Jesus’ humble beginning was being laid in a manger used to feed stinky animals instead of a proper crib. Despite his humble beginning, baby Jesus was the Only Son of God. He was God incarnate.

A lot of things Dad said and words he used were a bit puzzling and difficult for me to understand. Nonetheless, I believed in my heart and somehow knew what he was telling me was the REAL truth about Christmas. This story didn’t feel the same as the other stories he made up about Santa and his elves. It was all so holy and supernatural; not a mythical one like the elves and Santa Claus. He went on to tell me where idea of gift giving came from-the Magi who brought Jesus gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh.

I learned the true meaning of Christmas that year but to this day, I still love the mythical figures and festivities that go along with the Holiday Season. After that Nativity Lesson with my dad, my faith no longer lay with Santa. Thanks to his faith, mine was directed to the miracle of Jesus’ birth. I also learned Our Heavenly Father gave the world the greatest gift of all. Our family continued to celebrate Christmas together year after year, until they passed away. Dad always made sure Jesus’ Birth was emphasized over everything else. He bought a reel-to-reel tape recorder for Christmas in 1965 and made a recording of him and me together.  I was eleven then. In the recording he introduced me as “Miss Mary Ann Russo,” and said I had something very important to say about the real meaning of Christmas. I still have the recorder and recording. I love to re-play his voice and mine together as we talked about the real meaning of Christmas. It’s my Dad’s gift that keeps on giving.  The Heavenly Father’s gift of Salvation through faith in Christ keeps on giving in a greater way. If you haven’t already, will you accept Christ as your Savior and Lord? It’s a free gift. There’s nothing you can do to earn it. That’s what a gift is. Something someone else gives you out of love. God’s grace extends it to us by faith.

 Merry Christ-mas Ya'll!