Yes, Santa, there are Virginias

Appeared in the Dec. 24, 2008, Standard Journal.

Editor,

Many years ago, a little girl named Virginia asked if I was real. Now it’s my turn.

I’m not as jolly as I was — walk into any mall or department store, and you’ll know why. My grinning face is everywhere, usually accompanied by the words “discount” or “sale.”

If it were a matter of using my likeness without my permission, I’d sigh and let it go. But now I’m the patron saint of commercialism. Children throw tantrums for the latest gizmo. Parents wear their credit cards thin. The only true sounds of merriment come from the cash register. And all this is done to “Ho ho ho!”

Last week, I got curious and eavesdropped on a line of children waiting to see a Santa impersonator. I’ll never do that again — their pent-up year of “I want” exploded on the poor man playing me. I didn’t know children could recite catalogs.

My question is this: Is there a Virginia anymore? If not, I’m ready to hang up my cap.

SANTA CLAUS

Somewhat south of the North Pole

Mr. Claus,

It was with a great deal of sadness that we read your letter. While we understand your frustrations, we assure you Virginia still exists.

You won’t normally find her in line to see a Santa impersonator. You won’t find her breathing little clouds on store windows or throwing a tantrum inside. You have to turn your steps to home.

Mr. Claus, Virginia is the girl who goes wild at the first rosy light of Christmas Day. She drags her little brother out of bed — and watches him open presents.

She’s the girl who shows up at many doors — she so bundled, you can’t recognize her but for the singing and the thrust-out plate of sugar cookies.

She’s the one who barges into her parents’ room with burned toast, runny eggs and a “Merry Christmas!”

She’s the girl who always waves at you on the street, even though you’ve forgotten her name. She’s the boy next door who begs to fix your toilet, even though he doesn’t know the difference between a wrench and a hatchet. In fact, she’s every person who’s grown up without rotting into an adult, the type who sleeps in the living room on Christmas Eve just to watch the lights on the tree.

Virginia is the kind of person who lives stuff you’ve only heard from the pulpit but hardly noticed, like “love,” “gratitude” and “happy.” And yet, when you see Virginia, you don’t think you’re being preached to. You just think, “That’s Virginia.” Then hours later, as you walk down a silent, snow-veiled street, you wonder why you aren’t like her.

Yes, Mr. Claus, there is a Virginia — plenty of them. The Virginias of the world deserve the best Christmas we can give them, even though they’ve never asked for it.

For their sakes, please don’t hang up your cap.