Fourteen. Who’s a Jolly Good Fellow? Everybody, Apparently
Fourteen
WHO’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW? EVERYBODY, APPARENTLY
“Honey, where’s my candy cane sack?” It’s the morning of the Sweetville Santa Parade, and much to my wondering eyes, my dad is one of the Santas. Powell Park doesn’t have a Santa parade. Shutting down Ninety-Fifth Street in Powell Park would be a highly unpopular move.
“Oh! I hand-washed it! How is the suit? Does the belt buckle look shiny enough? Oh, oh, Cal!”
My dad walks down the stairs in his costume, and I’m disturbed by how reverently my mom is looking at him. Heartfelt World is decidedly rated PG, but Mom is borderline peeling off his synthetic fur–trimmed Santa coat with her eyes.
“Oh, you look perfect!” Mom presses her hands to her snowflake-appliquéd chest. “And Brian is out front putting a garland on your scooter!”
“Scooter?” I say. I’m sitting at the far end of the couch next to the tree, half-hidden by its perfect branches.
After talking to Grant yester day, I was weird with Corey, either trying too hard to flirt or getting caught up in replays of my conversation with Grant.
I’d been merry and bright hanging out with Corey while Grant seemed to be alone at his station, but as soon as Fiona showed up, it fairly squelched my buoyant mood.
Fiona reminded me how I never felt quite settled in my relationship with Grant.
It made me wonder if thinking I could draw Corey to me was a completely impossible gambit.
Remaining on the outskirts of all my family’s holiday hubbub is the best I can manage right now.
“Well, it’s a little Vespa thing,” Mom says, coming closer and straightening a few of the ornaments on the tree. “You know your dad—he loves bringing a little something extra to the Santa parade every year.”
“Dad rides a Vespa?” Four days ago, he was touting the quality of socks purchased on the street, and now he owns an Italian motor scooter?
“Well, we usually ride it together,” Mom says, and is there a suggestive quality to her tone? “But it’s all his for the parade.”
Brian walks in the door, beaming as if of course a middle school teacher wants to spend his holiday break gearing up for a Santa parade.
“Santa’s sleigh is ready,” he says. Then, to me and Mom, “Rachel circled back to our place to get the hot cider, but she’s almost here.
” He spots me in my antisocial corner of the couch and walks over, flinging himself onto the cushion next to mine.
He slings an arm over my shoulder, extra brotherly.
“Someday, I’ll be the one wearing that suit. ”
“Next year, I’ll make you one,” Mom offers. “A father-son Santa duo! Who doesn’t love a parade?”
Me. I don’t love a parade. The troubling thoughts marching back and forth across my mind are parade enough for me.
If I thought Ninety-Fifth Street was balls-out Christmas two days ago, well, today it’s letting me know I severely underestimated Sweetville’s balls-out potential.
Mom, Rachel, the kids, and I have managed to snag a spot at the start of the parade route, near the big tree and the library.
The Santas are lined up on the narrow street that separates the building from the Sweetville Green, some of them on foot and some of them in vehicles.
There are so many of them waiting, the Santa procession wraps around the side of the library.
On the green, there’s also a small stage set up with a podium as well as a few other microphones.
As I look down the street, I see what has to be Sweetville’s entire population lining the sidewalks of Ninety-Fifth, waiting for the parade to begin.
Everyone is dressed in Santa gear, from babies to older people, dogs to cats (well, I see only one cat, and it looks miserable in its holiday Mrs. Claus cloak).
I even notice the city guy Millie from Lotta Love Pub was dealing with is standing in the crowd, sipping a cocoa and wearing a Santa hat.
When Millie appears at his side with a couple I assume is her sister and her sister’s fiancé, I get the sense that City Guy is going to let up on his stringent conditions for selling his grandmother’s house because he knows he’ll be visiting it as Millie’s new boyfriend. Just like I predicted.
I scan the onlookers for signs of anyone else I know but am not sure I recognize any faces in the color-coordinated sea of Christmas people lined up on either side of the street.
Wool coats and nylon parkas in several varieties of green (emerald, hunter, and forest) and red (maroon, burgundy, cherry) form an undulating mass.
The air is scented with roasted almonds and cinnamon (nice) and heavily spun sugar from the red and green cotton candy for sale (migraine inducing).
Next to me, Rachel pulls mason jars of hot cider from her tote bag ( Treats for Santa’s Nice List , the bag says on the side) and hands one to me and one to my mom.
Rachel’s tied a red-and-green plaid ribbon around the rim of the jar, which gives me only slightly more confidence that the clear, brownish liquid is not, in fact, a urine sample from a very dehydrated person.
She sends the kids to a booth along the parade route for cups of hot cocoa.
“Cheers!” she says over the piped-in Christmas music, clinking jars with Mom and me. “Isn’t this the best?”
It’s not at all the best. The whole scene leaves me feeling like the holidays are sadistic.
Because there’s so much pressure to be all in.
To wear the Santa suit and pack the cider and love a parade.
And if you’re not when everyone around you is, you’re left feeling so alone, and not just alone but like a bad person who wants to ruin it for everyone else.
All I want right now is to be in my sad little apartment with my trash Christmas tree, feeling as sorry for myself as I want. But I’m not, so I smile at Rachel and echo, “The best.”
Finally, the crowd starts to settle as “Winter Wonderland” fades out and is replaced by a festive fanfare on horns.
Four Santas have filled the stage, playing “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” on a trumpet, tuba, trombone, and sax.
Henry and Alice hop up and down as a woman dressed as an elf joins them and sings along to the music.
When they finish, the crowd cheers with gusto as another woman I presume is the Sweetville mayor—based on the sash stating so draped over her emerald green wool coat—steps onto the stage and taps the mic at the podium.
“When I was a little girl, I came to this parade every year, and every year, I wanted to be a part of it. In fact, you could say that Santa Claus—all one hundred and forty seven of him; that’s how many we have this year!—is responsible for my political career!”
“Wow, now there’s a platform—‘Doin’ it for Santa!’” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that, Jill?” Mom says.
“Uh, I said, ‘Santa really does it for me,’” I blurt. Oops. That’s not right, either.
But Mom is distractedly craning her neck, peering for Dad in the field of St. Nicks. Santa really does it for her, too. Yikes.
“Sweetville is more than a place,” the mayor is saying.
“It’s an idea. An idea and a way of life.
Here, every day is a gift, and we all unwrap each day eager not only to receive our gift but to give our gift as well,” the mayor adds.
“And now, the Santas of Sweetville want to give you the greatest gift of all: the most ho ho ho s you can hear in one place!”
Is there a lot of demand for the most ho ho ho s you can hear in one place? I think, as a pickup—its bed teeming with teen Santas—rolls through the massive red ribbon next to the mayor’s podium. The banner on the side of the truck tells me this is Sweetville High’s football team.
“Santa!!!” Alice yells, as all of the boys smile perfect smiles at her and toss her and Henry squishy footballs emblazoned with the school’s mascot, a Spartan (but a Spartan in a Santa hat).
“This doesn’t confuse the kids? That there are so many Santas here?” I ask Rachel.
Rachel shakes her head. “If anything, it cements their knowledge that the meaning of the season is spreading joy and cheer,” she says.
She points toward an octogenarian Santa on a motorized Rascal scooter with two also very old Jack Russell terriers wearing Santa hats in its basket.
The man and the dogs look thrilled to be everyone’s focal point as they wheel by.
“It’s like putting up a beautiful holiday light display on your house.
It’s not only for you and yours but a way to say to friends and neighbors, ‘I hope this makes you smile.’”
Much as this sentiment feels both lofty and insightful, where is the Rachel who appeared to have been sucker punched by the very idea of this season and its expectations?
“I see something that makes me smile,” I say, as the Sweetville Fire Department trucks begin to roll by.
The fittest Santas the world has ever known hang off the sides of the truck, waving to the crowd.
The fake beards can’t hide the firefighters’ chiseled jawlines, and is it just me or are all these Santas wearing slightly tighter-than-regulation Santa pants? I’m mildly cheered.
Mom claps her hands. “Oh, there’s Daddy!”
I pray she’s not referring to a firefighter as “Daddy,” but phew, there’s my dad. Though her referring to him as Daddy might not be much better. He’s doing figure eights with his Vespa as he tosses candy canes from his sack.
“The garland looks great, doesn’t it?” my brother says. “Looking good, Dad!”
I’m blown away at my dad’s coordination. This is a guy who can’t work chopsticks even using both hands.