“Believe in love. Believe in magic. Hell, believe in Santa Claus. Believe in others. Believe in yourself. Believe in your dreams. If you don’t, who will?” — Jon Bon Jovi
Every year at this time, I start asking friends, family, and even strangers on social media to join me in a tradition that’s been part of my Thanksgiving for my whole life. Growing up, my mother would be busting her butt in the kitchen, shoving bread inside a poor dead Birdzilla, and making mashed potatoes that were lumpy but always delicious. In the living room, my father would watch Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade in his pajamas, and my brother and I would usually annoy each other. Sounds like a real Normal Rockwell situation, right?
My father would start hollering at the parade’s end, “Kids! Get in here, he’s here, it’s Santa, get in here!” When we were little, it was great. By the time we hit our teens, we rolled our eyes so hard we could see our brains. We’d holler back, “That’s not Santa, it’s some guy in a fat suit, stop already!” He’d then shout at the TV, “Don’t listen to them, Santa, I know it’s you, I know you’re real!”
At the time, I thought it was the stupidest tradition ever. Who yells at a televised parade? What kind of lunacy is that? If “Santa” wasn’t going to hear him, what’s the point?
With age comes wisdom, though, and now that both of my parents are gone, I’d give anything to hear my mother swearing at the turkey while she wrestled it into the roasting pan and my father screeching at the television. I decided to restart the tradition of watching Santa arrive at the end of the parade, and yes, like my father, I yelled at the screen, telling Santa that I believed. My kids had the same reaction as my brother and I did, which made it even more fun.
I also let several friends know about this tradition, and over the years, they have started doing it, sending me snapshots and videos of themselves and their families yelling, “I believe in you, Santa, I believe.” Silly? Probably. But I know people who put marshmallows on vegetables, so I’m entitled to some silliness.
It’s been a tough year, not pandemic level, but still hard for many of us. Uncertainty is all around; families are divided over politics or current events, school is still disrupted in local areas (at least as I write this, two districts are still on strike), and it’s stressful. Is it so bad that I want to believe in something most people give up believing in in their teens, just for a minute or two?
I almost wonder if, somehow, through karma or Christmas magic—which I also believe in—all those years of my dad letting the entire neighborhood know that he believed in Santa brought about the idea of the Macy’s ad campaign “ Believe.” They began using it in 2009, so perhaps he’s still out there in the universe somewhere, shouting through the stars, “I believe in you, Santa, I believe.”
For my dad and now my family, it’s not a religious or Christmas concept, so much as it was about putting something positive out there. It was about showing that it’s OK to accept this wild legend of an old guy in a garishly red suit and hat, in a sleigh pulled by flying forest animals, traveling the world in one night, with enough presents for all who celebrate. Whether all that happens or not isn’t the point. The point is to believe in something. We can all choose what that “something” will be, and my dad chose this.
Even though I am not Jewish (other than my honorary MOT status, my friends in that faith have bestowed on me), I completely believe in the miracle of Hanukkah and a day’s worth of lamp oil lasting eight days. I know it’s not a significant holiday in the Jewish religion, but the story of it, verifiable or not, is inspiring. If I weren’t sure I’d burn the house down, I’d light candles during this time in solidarity, but I’m not good with open flames.
As we enter into shorter days, less light, colder weather, and increased demands on our time, what could be better than accepting that there is magic in the world, just for a few weeks? If you agree, please watch the parade, tell Santa you believe, and let him know Frank sent you.
I believe in you, Santa.
Signed,
Frank’s daughter.
Brenda Kelley Kim has lived in Marblehead for 50 years, and is an author, freelance writer, and mother of three. Her column appears weekly.
