I was definitely a jolly teenager.
I'm not sure whether it was a matter of size or my penchant for drama that caused my frequent nomination for Santa performances.
For whatever reason, I played Claus almost every year during high school.
The first time I masqueraded as St. Nick was in a thick summer heat in 1999. "Christmas in July," at the Anglican summer camp where I was a counsellor in training. It was a theme day for Tadpole Camp, the week of the summer when most kids in our care are barely out of kindergarten (and/or diapers).
My cabin assignment as a counsellor-in-training was a gaggle of five year olds. This was a constituency that needed help getting dressed, cutting food, appreciated lullabyes before bed, and believed in Santa with evangelical fervour.
The camp was pitched on a tiny piece of land at the edge of a sleepy little hamlet near Kingston. Tumbling down a steep hill to the murky lake were charmingly ramshackle cabins. Most of the cabin walls were decked out in graffiti etched well before Crosby first crooned Mele Kalikimaka. Near the bottom of the hill lay a campfire circle- our standard gathering place.
I remember the head counsellor chuckling as she handed me a garbage bag and sent me off to assume my disguise. The bag contained one of the flimsiest Santa get-ups imaginable- cheap red felt, stringy wig and beard, lifeless hat. Eager to prove my worth as an aspiring counsellor in spite of the lacklustre threads, I donned the gay apparel and underwent the unceremonious pillow-shove to accent my potbelly. With a mixture of excitement and trepidation I stepped out into the shimmering late-afternoon heat to make my Santa debut.
The kids and the rest of the staff were assembled at campfire circle to await my arrival. I paraded down the hill while doing everything possible to exude jovial, geriatric jolliness.
I arrived at the centre of the action accompanied by an elf counsellor, who helped me distribute small gifts to the children.
All was merry and bright until little Paul approached me and took a flying leap onto my knee. HO HO HO, LITTLE BOY! I started, but before I could even launch into a summer instalment of the nice vs. naughty assessment, Paul gave my sad excuse for a beard a confident tug.
SNAP, it flapped back onto my chin after giving Paul a full viewing of my pimply, clean shaven face. I stuttered to figure out what to do next. It was clear from the look in Paul's eyes that his continuing belief in Santa lay in the balance of my next move. Paul had managed a good glimpse of my acne-laden face beneath the beard, and was coming quickly to doubt my authenticity.
I stood up and slowly stepped away from Paul. Hoping I could make a quick exit and limit the extent of my exposure as a fraud.
Sadly, Paul's bold gesture of curiosity did not go unnoticed by the rest of his tadpole colleagues. Soon I was swarmed by the rest of the camp's five and six year-olds, pawing and pushing and tugging and pinching.
The gig was up. Paul now had full command of his fellow campers. YOU'RE NOT SANTA CLAUS, YOU'RE GUS, he hollered at me, indignant, doing his best to draw everyone's attention to my charade. I'M GOING TO GET YOU, AND THAT RIDICULOUS SUIT TOO.
Yes, those words came from the mouth of a five year old. I was dismissed by a five year old with the phrase 'ridiculous suit.'
Now that Paul had condemned the suit, he wanted to destroy it and obliterate me with it. I looked to the other staff assembled at the campfire in desperate hopes someone might come to my assistance. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that no rescue was on offer. My colleagues were quite enjoying the spectacle of my uncovering and probably laughing too hard to help me even if they wanted too.
The tadpole rebellion was now of such hostility that I knew I needed to escape. I began to run up the hill towards the staff bathroom.
Have you ever been on the run from 30 angry children under the age of 7? Have you ever hidden in a toilet stall while those same children bang violently on the locked bathroom door?
It's not pretty.
Stay tuned for further memoirs of a teenaged Santa.......
I'm not sure whether it was a matter of size or my penchant for drama that caused my frequent nomination for Santa performances.
For whatever reason, I played Claus almost every year during high school.
The first time I masqueraded as St. Nick was in a thick summer heat in 1999. "Christmas in July," at the Anglican summer camp where I was a counsellor in training. It was a theme day for Tadpole Camp, the week of the summer when most kids in our care are barely out of kindergarten (and/or diapers).
My cabin assignment as a counsellor-in-training was a gaggle of five year olds. This was a constituency that needed help getting dressed, cutting food, appreciated lullabyes before bed, and believed in Santa with evangelical fervour.
The camp was pitched on a tiny piece of land at the edge of a sleepy little hamlet near Kingston. Tumbling down a steep hill to the murky lake were charmingly ramshackle cabins. Most of the cabin walls were decked out in graffiti etched well before Crosby first crooned Mele Kalikimaka. Near the bottom of the hill lay a campfire circle- our standard gathering place.
I remember the head counsellor chuckling as she handed me a garbage bag and sent me off to assume my disguise. The bag contained one of the flimsiest Santa get-ups imaginable- cheap red felt, stringy wig and beard, lifeless hat. Eager to prove my worth as an aspiring counsellor in spite of the lacklustre threads, I donned the gay apparel and underwent the unceremonious pillow-shove to accent my potbelly. With a mixture of excitement and trepidation I stepped out into the shimmering late-afternoon heat to make my Santa debut.
The kids and the rest of the staff were assembled at campfire circle to await my arrival. I paraded down the hill while doing everything possible to exude jovial, geriatric jolliness.
I arrived at the centre of the action accompanied by an elf counsellor, who helped me distribute small gifts to the children.
All was merry and bright until little Paul approached me and took a flying leap onto my knee. HO HO HO, LITTLE BOY! I started, but before I could even launch into a summer instalment of the nice vs. naughty assessment, Paul gave my sad excuse for a beard a confident tug.
SNAP, it flapped back onto my chin after giving Paul a full viewing of my pimply, clean shaven face. I stuttered to figure out what to do next. It was clear from the look in Paul's eyes that his continuing belief in Santa lay in the balance of my next move. Paul had managed a good glimpse of my acne-laden face beneath the beard, and was coming quickly to doubt my authenticity.
I stood up and slowly stepped away from Paul. Hoping I could make a quick exit and limit the extent of my exposure as a fraud.
Sadly, Paul's bold gesture of curiosity did not go unnoticed by the rest of his tadpole colleagues. Soon I was swarmed by the rest of the camp's five and six year-olds, pawing and pushing and tugging and pinching.
The gig was up. Paul now had full command of his fellow campers. YOU'RE NOT SANTA CLAUS, YOU'RE GUS, he hollered at me, indignant, doing his best to draw everyone's attention to my charade. I'M GOING TO GET YOU, AND THAT RIDICULOUS SUIT TOO.
Yes, those words came from the mouth of a five year old. I was dismissed by a five year old with the phrase 'ridiculous suit.'
Now that Paul had condemned the suit, he wanted to destroy it and obliterate me with it. I looked to the other staff assembled at the campfire in desperate hopes someone might come to my assistance. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that no rescue was on offer. My colleagues were quite enjoying the spectacle of my uncovering and probably laughing too hard to help me even if they wanted too.
The tadpole rebellion was now of such hostility that I knew I needed to escape. I began to run up the hill towards the staff bathroom.
Have you ever been on the run from 30 angry children under the age of 7? Have you ever hidden in a toilet stall while those same children bang violently on the locked bathroom door?
It's not pretty.
Stay tuned for further memoirs of a teenaged Santa.......
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