Perhaps I ought to tell the story of how Santa and I fell out, how our relationship crumbled long ago. When I was about 6 years old, maybe seven, my belief in the portly Old Elf ceased. It wasn’t a particularly horrible conclusion however. I simply figured out on my own that my parents provided the largesse found beneath the tree on Christmas morning. My problem was that I couldn’t keep my knowledge to myself or my mouth shut.

I had a cousin, Diane, who lived a block away and was a year younger than I. She was not only younger; she was sweeter and much more delicate, blonde and blue-eyed with an expression of total innocence on her heart-shaped little face. In the looks department, she had everything I did not.

I waited for Christmas to draw closer, near enough for the seasonal anticipation to have grown semi-intense and I told Diane that there was no such individual as Santa Claus. She and I had been building a snow fort together. One of the first really good snows, in the ideal consistency, had fallen; precisely wet enough to sculpt into the most excellent fort ever. Delicate Diane grew very angry after my calm declaration about the Jolly Old Man in Red. Her sweet face grew awfully red itself. She cried a bit and dismantled the fort before she strode off home, sobbing or cussing. I couldn’t tell which one.

I paid for my miscalculation. I don’t recall what sanctions my parents placed upon me but I paid. My precise penalty came later in my life. It was a twenty-year sentence to a holiday bake-a-thon. Every year as Christmas neared I “started the cookies.” Dozens and dozens of Christmas cookies – sugar cookies, thumbprint cookies, date pinwheel cookies, Russian tea cakes – you name it, I baked it. For three solid weeks the oven had no opportunity to cool down.

Most of the goodies went to school in fancy boxes with my 5 kids. Some found their way to neighbors. The rest were available for Christmas visitors, except for the final several dozen eaten by my sister and her three kids. My sister refused to bake cookies if she could help it and she always arranged an appointment for a day soon after Christmas to come to our house to “help us clean up the ‘leftover’ cookies.” I often wondered if she put out store-bought treats for Santa Claus.

At a more advanced age, I got a flash of enlightenment, sort of a vision, about all the saints in the Church’s liturgical calendar. (This has nothing to do with cookies of any kind.) The Church appointed some of the glorified dead to become patrons of specialties the sanctified supposedly were familiar with during their lives. Such as; Saints Vitus and Genesius, neither of whom made it undefiled through the martyrdom-in-the-Coliseum-epoch, are both patrons of actors; Saint Giles, follower of St. Francis of Assisi, patronizes lepers, which stymies me since he was never stricken with leprosy himself; Saint Barbara, 4th century virgin-martyr, tortured and beheaded by her anti-Christian father, is patroness of the United States Army Field Artillery. Go figure.

The Saints stepped in to fill the breach left by the Greco-Roman gods after the Church supposed it had rendered them out of work. Ceres, Corn goddess, Eternal Mother, Sorrowing Mother sounds a great deal like the Virgin Mary to me. Minerva handed out a multitude of benefactions – Goddess of Wisdom, Learning, the Arts and Sciences, Medicine and the Dyeing trades, not to mention War. Busy lady. Minnie had so many responsibilities that numerous Saints were required to pick up her docket. Neptune, also called Neptune the Equester, took care not only of the seas, oceans and the dwellers therein, but horses and horse racing. Venus was originally the divine keeper of gardens and vineyards. It took nine saints to fill her shoes just in the cultivation sphere. The only saint to come even close to Venus in her advocacy for human beings would be Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. Her vigilance encompasses 28 careers and life situations, plus toothaches. The goddess Vesta watched over bakers and Fire. Catherine of Siena, who now protects humanity against fires, also has all of Italy to keep an eye on. The girls always excel as multi-taskers.

So, back to Saint Nick. The actual Saint Nicolas, Bishop of Myra, the one admitted to sainthood by the Church pre-congregationally, is also a super-patron. The guardian of children, protector of ships and sailors, and concerned saint of wrongly condemned prisoners, thieves in particular, Nicolas has multitudinous prayers to deal with. Everyone in America knows how the gallant bishop became the Saint Nick of “A Visit from Saint Nicholas.”

There’s a lurking possibility concerning who actually authored the poem. Word has it that Clement Moore wrote the Christmas poem during a snow storm. Moore was born in New York City in July of 1799 into a wealthy family connected with Trinity Church. He grew up to become a biblical scholar and a professor at General Theological Seminary. Strangely, he appears to have chosen to write about, at that time, a little-known Catholic saint.

On the other hand, there are those who claim the writer was Henry Livingston, Jr., who was familiar with Dutch culture through his Dutch mother. “Sinterklaes” is the traditional Dutch name for St. Nicholas. The reindeer names, Dunder and Blixem, are also both Dutch. Livingston was a member of the same literary society as Washington Irving and could easily have learned a great deal of old Dutch Christmas traditions from Irving, who was the author of A History of New York.

Whoever, in fact, composed the Christmas Eve poem did a marvelous job. “A Visit from Saint Nicholas” changed American children’s habit from finding toys tucked into their stockings/shoes (a chunk of coal for the incorrigibly naughty) on Christmas morning to Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve became the definitive moment in time for the jolly old guy to appear. It also converted the devout St. Nicholas into a merry salesman for just about anything on the market.

If I had first-class vibes with him, and if I believed in him, I would locate St. Nick and give him my Christmas list. It’s a simple piece of paper with several names on it. The names? John Mayer, Michael Bublé, Uncle Kracker (aka Matthew Shafer), Chris Daughtry, Bruno Mars (aka Peter Hernandez) and Jason Mraz.

You may recognize every one of these boys as being among today’s popular singers/songwriters. I view them as reincarnations of the old radio stars: Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como (that would be Michael Bublé), Elvis, and Dean Martin (Uncle Kracker).

And what would I fondly request of Santa regarding these brilliant children? Since I admire and enjoy each of them, adore their voices and vastly appreciate their songwriting gifts, I’d love for all of them to come to my house. Despite John Mayer’s inclination toward petulance and arrogance, the Kracker’s tendency to overly imbibe and Jason Mraz’s vegetarianism, they would be warmly welcomed.

I can start baking the cookies right now.

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About the author Cate Lane: Born in Minnesota and raised a temperate progressive, I was carried off to Texas 10 years ago by the tsunami that was my husband's retirement. Texas is not Minnesota, not by a long shot. However, I hear that Minnesota isn't Minnesota anymore either.

Writing was always my first choice in life. I began writing at the age of 8, small books about pioneers heading west. Little did I know then that I would be living in the most "western" of all the states, Texas. No one told the Texans that they are simply Southerners who, like Bugs Bunny, took a wrong turn at Albuquerque and wound up here.

I am sneaking up on 70 years of age and now own a vast store of useless knowledge. Happy to share any or all of it with you all.

Email: CthlnLn@aol.com

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