‘Jimmy Dunne Says’

‘Santa Suit’

The Palisadian-Post presents an homage to Will Rogers’ column, “Will Rogers Says,” with a column by Palisadian Jimmy Dunne—on life in the “greatest town in America.”

I just bought a new suit.

It was definitely time.

Not exactly a typical suit. It’s a Santa suit.

I’ve had the same one since my first Santa job as a sophomore in high school.

Fifty years ago.

Our hometown Santa in LaGrange, Illinois, was a fabulous 90-year-old guy with a heart bigger than a Christmas tree. All the kids in town would visit him in his Santa chair in this tiny Santa house every night until Christmas on La Grange Road.

I cut his grass for $3.50 every week in the summer. He’d always tell me that when he died, he wanted me to wear his suit and be the new-town Santa. I’d tell him I was too young. He said it’s not about your age—it’s about your heart.

He died that year—right smack in the middle of peak Santa season.

I’d sit in that freezing, miniature Santa house every night with two Christmas songs by Alvin and the Chipmunks looping on a cassette machine. I wish I got a dollar for every little kid that would sit on my leg, take one look at my too-close-up bearded face and pee on my suit.

It was water-boarding for Santas.   

After that rookie year, it oddly snowballed into booking families in town for 15-minute home visits, from 6 to 9 every night—every Christmas season through my high school and college days. I’d be booked solid in advance by Labor Day.

But I never booked any appointments on the two biggest nights—the 23 and 24.

On those nights, I’d just walk down the family blocks with my Santa bag over my shoulder looking in windows for a big family Christmas party. I’d knock on the door, lower my voice about six octaves with a “Ho, Ho, Ho,” and in I’d go.

(I don’t think you’d get invited into a lot of homes today trying the same thing.)

As I’d walk in, I’d listen for parents calling out their kids’ names—and for the names of some of the fabulous cocktailed-up aunts and uncles sipping their fourth Old-Fashioneds and Manhattans.

I’d plug the names into a dozen lines from “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Lines like, “When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Annie and Jenny—you both are so dear.” A simple magic trick.

I’d throw all the adults in a tizzy trying to figure out who was missing dressed as Santa. When I’d play “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” on the piano then I’d really throw ’em off.

I can’t possibly express in words the pure joy of sitting with kids and seeing the wonder in their eyes looking up at Santa. It doesn’t get better than that.

For me, the moment of Christmas was the same every year: Christmas Eve, 9 p.m. sharp, after my last surprise Santa stop.

I’d stand by myself smack in the middle of one of our town’s streets. Not a person or a car in sight. The only sound was the fresh-falling snow gently floating through the bare elm and maple town trees, blanketing the snow-covered lawns and streets.

Replaying the memory of the kids that night, I’d eat the falling snow in the air through my Santa-bearded face—offsetting the heat of that suit, the uncomfortable pillow stuck under my Santa coat, and that hot, uncomfortable wig and beard.

In that magical moment, town and love, and wonder, and family, and promise and Christmas—all collided.   

I’ve been a Santa every year since then—and until this year, in that same ol’ suit.

Two nights ago, I sported my new snappy suit at a Christmas event with a sea of fantastic kids.

With a bunch of kids huddled around me, I was reminded of a tip from that great old man. He’d tell me not to ask kids what they want. But to look them right in the eyes …

And to just listen.

To listen to their beating hearts.       

To listen to what makes a child, a child.

I’ve had a little girl tell me her dad is kind of sad and that what she really wanted for Christmas was a job for her dad. I’ve had a 7-year-old boy ask if there’s any way I could help make his mom’s cancer not hurt her so much.

The wild thing about being a Santa is that you’re not dressing up as somebody, like Elvis or like some singer in a tribute band.

You are Santa to those kids.

My two girls are in their early 30s and all grown up.

In a quiet moment with one of them last night, I was reminded I’m still her dad.

And, in that moment, she needed her dad.

And I tried to draw from what that old man would do—to just listen.

To the sound of a child’s beating heart.

To that beautiful, wondrous beating heart.

Jimmy Dunne is modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter (28 million hit records), screenwriter/producer of hit television series, award-winning author, an entrepreneur—and a Palisadian “Citizen of the Year.” You can reach him at j@jimmydunne.com.