Paging Santa

“Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmastime.”
— American writer Laura Ingalls Wilder (1867-1957)

Reporter’s Note: Coming down sick on deadline, I revisit a favorite holiday chestnut in Johnson family circles.
As I sat down to write this early deadline Christmas column, I couldn’t help but think of all the holiday seasons I’ve spent with loved ones.
The memories always keep flooding back, more so over the years and I grow older and loved ones increasingly pass away.
The magic of the Christmas season, while it still shines bright, somehow seems to burn brighter in my memories of Christmases past, remembering the times shared with family and memories that fondly linger, especially this time of year.
Memories of time spent surrounded by people I love — and loved — the most.
The smell of Christmas cookies baking in the oven, the sound of Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas” in the background, and the sight of the sparkling lights and ornaments adorning the tree never fail to transport me back to a simpler time of childhood moments that made life special then and served as the building blocks for memories that have become a part of who I am today.
As a child, Christmas Eves were spent celebrating with my dad’s folks, Grandma and Grandpa Johnson, my folks and I in our 1968 Dodge Charger R/T heading north out of Milwaukee for the quaint Ozaukee County hamlet of Cedarburg, known then and now for its landmarked 1800s Greek Revival-styled grist and woolen mills and breweries hugging picturesque Cedar Creek.
We gathered at my grandparent’s sprawling tri-level, affectionately known as the “Johnson Boarding House” for its humanitarian role in sheltering a variety of family members, including my three cousins and their folks, and my dad’s lifelong bachelor uncle, Ronnie.
For my cousins and I, the highlight of Christmas Eve’s sugar-induced juvenile bedlam was the eagerly-awaited annual arrival of Santa Claus.
Since my earliest memory, particularly in the era of action-adventure medical drama “Emergency” on NBC, I stood in awe of my Uncle Ronnie, in part because he had that quintessential boyhood dream job as a fireman and trailblazing EMT, logging 25 years as a Wisconsin emergency services volunteer, eventually serving as a lieutenant and captain. I would later serve 16-years myself as a volunteer firefighter in the North Woods, running with Boulder Junction.
In the great tradition of Clark Kent morphing into Superman, it was a remarkable but unfailing annual coincidence that right before Santa’s arrival, Uncle Ronnie would be personally summoned to the station for a call by an obliging dispatcher over his emergency scanner, which was strategically placed in the living room for all to hear.
Uncle Ronnie would rush out the door, back his truck out the drive, and race off — or so we thought — to Cedarburg’s landmarked 1908 brick fire station, where he would suit up in his turnout gear, don his fire helmet, and zoom off in red-lights-and-siren glory to save the day.
In actually, once out of sight of the house, he parked his truck on the shoulder of Alpine Drive and headed furtively back to the house on foot under the cover of the winter darkness.
After slipping through the back door of the garage, dank with winter chill, Uncle Ronnie donned his velvet red-and-white Santa suit, gloves, boots, and billowy faux locks and beard, all of which had been stashed discreetly between my grandparent’s olive green Pontiac and an aging vintage freezer full of his summer fishing bounty from the crystal lakes of Wisconsin’s North Woods near Rhinelander, where he and several of his CFD firefighting “brothers” owned a small, rustic hunting and fishing cabin.
Nicknamed “Roundy” for his uncanny resemblance to the jolly, plump cartoon grocer then used as a trademark by Milwaukee-based Roundy’s Better Foods, Uncle Ronnie needed no pillow for his disguise. His own girth was sufficient.
When the transformation was complete, Uncle Ronnie would energetically burst through the door into Grandpa and Grandma Johnson’s house as “Santa” with his bulging sack of gifts, heartily laughing “Ho, ho, ho” and “Merry Christmas” in a disguising bass. As he parceled out presents from his sack, he inquired as to our behavior since his last Christmas Eve visit. My cousins and I assured him of our angelic dispositions, forgetting entirely that we had been at juvenile fisticuffs just moments before.
Uncle Ronnie watched us open our gifts and gladly received our appreciative hugs. Then he would depart into the night, presumably taking off in his reindeer-drawn sleigh to make other deliveries to children around the globe,
After a suitably plausible time, assuming no real emergency page came in, Uncle Ronnie would return from his “fire call”. My cousins and I, not wanting Uncle Ronnie to be left out of the Christmas festivities, excitedly regaled him with a detailed account of the jolly old elf’s visit. Enjoying our earnest stories, Uncle Ronnie feigned surprise and also disappointment at having missed Santa’s magical appearance yet again.
As we grew older, we naturally began to question our belief in Santa Claus until the oldest, wisest and most jaded among us eventually exposed Uncle Ronnie’s secret. After that he never answered another Christmas Eve pager call, unless it was legit, and sadly, Santa came no more.
Through the years, Uncle Ronnie bestowed many gifts, but his greatest gifts are the cherished memories that he is fondly remembered by.
Eric Johnson can be reached at eric@fyinorthwoods.com.