Cotton-ball Santa is a cherished member of the family
Santa Claus is celebrating his 65th birthday in our household this holiday season.
I speak not of Father Christmas, who’s more like 400 years old, dating back to 17th century Britain; or Holland’s Sinterklaas, who’s been around several hundred years and arrives on a flying horse on Dec. 5, the morning before the Feast of St. Nicholas; or St. Nick, who was birthed in New York City sometime in the 19th century.
My focus here is a 6-inch-tall cotton-ball Santa who joined my family in December of 1951. He’s been perched atop the loftiest branches of our family Christmas tree — next to the angel — every year since.
That’s 66 Christmases this year.
My mother and father hosted him on their tree for decades, and now my eldest daughter, Jenn, carries on the tradition. My brother, sister and myself, our seven children and our 10 (to date) grandchildren have all paid homage to cotton-ball Santa over the years.
He’s a cherished member of the family.
Diminutive Santa was a party favor I collected at a Christmas party in Miss Collins’ second grade class at Corona del Mar Elementary School in 1951. To be sure, the story of his inclusion in our family has been embellished over the decades in the fog of holiday exuberance. In fact, the story wasn’t fully vetted until several Christmases ago.
I was 6 when I proudly brought Santa home. Though I thought I was clear in conveying to my parents that Santa had been a party favor, that was not the case. They chose to believe that cotton-ball Santa was “Little Jimmie’s” clever handiwork. For years, they assumed I’d made him in Miss Collins’ class.
I hadn’t, but failed to disabuse them of that notion.
It’s my recollection that we second-graders sat around a long table for our class Christmas party on the final day of school before Christmas vacation. We sang carols and ate cookies. A little cotton-ball Santa was at every place setting.
My 92-year-old mother insists I’m wrong about that.
“I don’t care what you say, honey,” she said as we opened gifts on Christmas Eve last year. “I know deep in my heart that you made that little cotton-ball Santa just for me. He was no party favor.”
Uh, yes he was.
By the way, we’ve always celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve. My dad was a milkman (remember milkmen?), and he worked on Christmas mornings.
On Christmas Eve we ate dinner as a family; went out afterward to view the neighborhood’s Christmas lights; Santa arrived during our absence; we returned to open our presents; and attended late-night church services.
I went to Corona del Mar Elementary School from 1949 to ‘53, until our family moved from Newport Beach to Costa Mesa.
CdM Elementary, which no longer exists, stood between Carnation and Dahlia streets. I was there during my kindergarten, first- and second-grade years. I spent the fall semester of third grade there as well, then transferred to Lindbergh School in Costa Mesa.
I have three indelible memories of my 31/2 years at CdM Elementary. First, I remember honeybees swarming apocalyptically one afternoon in our kindergarten play yard, forcing us to remain indoors while “Mr. Bee Man” eradicated them. (I also remember having a crush on a willowy 5-year-old named Dixie.)
Second, I remember breaking my elbow falling from the monkey bars in second grade. A kind school nurse treated me until my parents arrived and transported me to St. Joseph Hospital’s emergency room (Hoag didn’t exist at the time).
And, finally, I remember cotton-ball Santa.
Twenty-five Santas were distributed to my classmates at Miss Collins’ 1951 second-grade class party, but I daresay Jimmy C’s (there was also a Jimmy B in class) Santa must surely be the only survivor. I’d wager that the vast majority of Santas bit the dust before New Year’s Eve, 1951.
True to tradition, for the 66th successive Christmas, cotton-ball Santa sits astride the branches of our family tree.
And we love him!
Have a very Merry Christmas.
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JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.