Every family has a holiday tradition.
Some families bake sugar cookies and cut them out in the shapes of bells and reindeer, icing them a mile high and decorating them with colored candies and glittery sprinkles.
Other families decorate their trees with heirloom ornaments, telling the stories of where each Shiny Brite originated. Some drench their entire house and yard with lights à la Clark Griswold, while others go caroling or head to midnight mass on Christmas Eve.
The Norcross family dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
Starting the day after Thanksgiving, my parents and grandparents became—and I mean this quite literally—the Clauses.
23andMe may have said our family came from somewhere in Europe, but we knew better. We came from the North Pole. Our blood was made of eggnog, our souls shone as bright as foil wrapping paper and our hearts were filled with Christmas spirit.
In fact, one of my ancestors—my great-great-grandfather—was known as Captain Santa. He operated a three-masted schooner—the sails lit by oil lamps made to look like holiday lights, the masts festooned with garland, the boat a floating forest—that famously sank during the holidays. It had been weighted down by a load of Northern Michigan evergreens bound for Chicago. His nickname had been bestowed on him by Chicago’s newspapers for his generosity in giving the trees to families in need.
The foundation of my family tree has also been hope.
We were so Santa that my grandfather and father had been bestowed the name Nicholas. We were so Kringle that the very first time my mother and grandmother met the loves of their lives both men were dressed as Santa.
They may not have known what they looked like underneath the hat and beard, but they could see his good soul clearly.
My parents and grandparents rotated December days dressing as Mr. and Mrs. Claus, one set going from school to school and hotel to hotel while the other managed our bookstore. I was always the cheery elf in candy cane–striped stockings, a curled cap and a green dress with peppermint buttons, holding a tiny plastic hammer.
I would watch children from all over Northern Michigan crawl upon my dad and grampa’s laps and whisper what they’d like for Christmas.
Every holiday, my family would gather to watch Miracle on 34th Street. It was our tradition.
And every night the week before Christmas, when a Claus would tuck me into bed, he or she would whisper, “There’s a Single Kringle out there just waiting for you. It’s destiny in our family. And one day you will find your Santa, and every day for the rest of your life—no matter the day of the year—will be as magical as Christmas day.”
And then a Claus would ask, “What is your Christmas wish, Susan?”
I would prattle off a list of toys or dresses, never realizing until too late none of those wishes really mattered.
Today, as an adult, I shut my eyes every night the week leading up to Christmas and before I go to bed silently ask myself, What is your Christmas wish, Susan?
And I whisper to myself, “All I wish is for Christmas to be the way it used to.”