WILKES-BARRE — Social media sites are filled with those great photos.
You know, the ones of children sitting on Santa’s lap and crying!
They are everywhere.
My experience was no different — as you can see in the attached picture.
It was taken many, many years ago and I can remember that moment as clear as a bell.
Mom wanted to get a picture of me with Santa Claus. So we headed “over town” on the Martz bus and went to Fowler Dick & Walker — The Boston Store (now Boscov’s) to see the jolly old elf.
I am certain my mom was confident that this would go well.
After all, I was a Santa fanatic. I wrote Santa a letter, burned in our coal stove in the kitchen. I was always a good little boy, especially in the final days leading up to Christmas. And I was sure to choose the very best looking sugar cookies that my mom baked and meticulously decorated for Santa, along with a tall glass of milk on Christmas Eve.
And I would labor over my Christmas list, prioritizing the gifts I asked Santa for, but always careful not to ask for too much. And it was always my experience that Santa received my messages, as evidenced by the glorious scene under and around our Christmas tree every Christmas morning.
So it seemed to be a safe bet that I would enjoy my visits with Santa — rushing to his lap and telling him what I wanted for Christmas.
But for some unknown reason, those visits never seemed to go as planned. And I am not sure why things went so awry. Hey, I loved Santa. I still do. This is the guy that brought me all those gifts over the year and I should be appreciative of that and I should be thanking him, not screaming to get far, far away from him.
But, sadly, that is what always happened. Yet, my mom persevered. We had several pictures of Santa and I — each in varying degrees of chaotic scenes.
To this day, I can’t explain it. It just happened year after year.
And, as evidenced by all those photos we see on social media, this time-dishonored tradition continues. Child after child, picture after picture, video after video of screaming, crying, running away scenes as Santas everywhere sit in disappointment.
Not sure what can be done to reverse this trend. The equation doesn’t add up. Santa loves kids. Kids love Santa. Add them together and you should get a positive results.
But that has not, is not, and apparently will never be the case.
Is it the red suit? The flowing white hair and beard? The loud, “Ho, Ho, Ho?”
I really don’t know, know, know, but it appears that Santa plus kids equals “No, No, No!”
What I do know is that despite this annual difficulty in kids meeting Santa, Santa still comes through. He and his elves manage to make sure every kid gets almost everything he or she asks for and they are always delivered on time.
Santa really does a great job. But the reality is that Santa can’t do it all. There are many children out there who don’t experience the joys of Christmas. There are Santa’s helpers that do what they can, but more — much more — needs to be done.
The crying we see when a child stands before Santa and freaks out is nothing compared to the very real crying and sadness that is seen on the faces of children who never have the opportunity to experience the kind of Christmas many of us have and will again this year.
Those are the kids we should think about. And we should do all we can to try to make those children smile, not just on Dec. 25, but all year round.
I tried to keep this column as light and fun as possible, but I remember my parents and the things they did to make a difference in kids’ lives.
That’s the example I choose to follow and many of you out there do as well.
So if you can, do all you can to help. There are many organizations out there that make an effort to bring smiles to those in need. We need to support them.
Yes, enjoy your family and your holidays. Do all you have always done.
But try to find some time to help those who need help.
As Burl Ives sang, have a holly jolly Christmas, it’s the best time of the year.
Have yourself the happiest of your holidays.
And help those who need help where you can.