So, were we naughty or nice? Try terrified!
Pam Uruburu, age 4, is joined by her grandmother Margaret, “Scary Santa” (Uncle Howard), cousin Craig Winik and sister Paula in 1963 at the Uruburu home. Credit: Uruburu Family Photo
As I sit in my cozy Bayville home on Long Island’s North Shore, decked out for the holidays, I think back to my early childhood in Queens Village and ghosts of Christmases past, far scarier than anything Charles Dickens imagined.
My paternal grandmother’s cockamamie idea was that on Christmas Eve, Santa should surprise us from somewhere in our home. Forget about “visions of sugarplums” dancing in our heads. We had nightmares each year about where “Scary Santa” might be lurking. My grandmother Margaret did not refer to him as that. It was the moniker my sister and I and my two male cousins gave him because not only was he hiding in the shadows somewhere, but he also wore a mask (perhaps to hide that he was our Uncle Howard).
It all began on Christmas Eve in 1963 as we sat in Nana’s living room listening to Bing Crosby on her Hi-Fi, when she suddenly lowered the volume and said ominously, “What’s that? Did you hear that?” The sound of muffled sleigh bells suddenly rang out from somewhere in the house. “I think I hear ringing down in the basement! Go see if Santa is there.” (Can you say horror movie trope?)
Not even the promise of presents could move us. Eventually, at the urging of the adults, we were made to investigate. . . the four of us in size and age order -- 8, 6, 4 and 2.
Our Queens house had a finished basement with a bar and a paneled rec room in a separate area with a door. On this night, an enormous, wrapped package sat by the door, tempting us to go inside the room. As my older cousin opened the door, there sat Scary Santa in the corner of the room! AAAHHHH!
His “ho ho hos” were barely audible over our screams of terror, as we scrambled away like spooked Scooby-Doo characters. By now, our parents had come downstairs. They were all smiling and laughing. (Too much Christmas cheer, perhaps?) Clearly, they were all in on this plot.
As Santa called each of us by name, one by one we entered the rec room to receive our gifts. My sister and I trembled like Dorothy approaching the wizard while my petrified 2-year-old cousin, Glenn, after receiving a plastic bowling set, grabbed one of the pins and hurled it with Bruce Lee swiftness at Santa’s head. “Ho ho -- ow!” (Not so jolly now, are you?)
I vowed that if or when I had my own child, I’d make sure he was never afraid of Santa. I raised my son in Massapequa to believe in the magic of Christmas, including leaving traditional cookies and milk for Santa and scattering glittering oats on the lawn for Rudolph. In fact, I still tear up with motherly pride when I remember my son, Michael, at age 2, eagerly sitting on Santa’s lap at the Massapequa Mall’s North Pole saying sweetly, “I love you, Santa.” With heartwarming holiday music playing, it was much more like “Miracle on 34th Street” instead of “A Christmas Horror Story.”
My son, now 21, still exemplifies his love of Christmas. Just last weekend, he came home from college to decorate our cottage with snowflake lights. Not a Scary Santa in sight.
So parents, the moral of this story might be to embrace the true spirit of Christmas, or “you better watch out” because Santa Claus and perhaps some therapy bills are coming to town!
Reader Pam Uruburu lives in Bayville.
