Santa Ernie: A Short Story

In 1897, which was before my time (six a.m. is before my time, too, but that’s another story), a little girl named Virginia asked if there was a Santa Claus. In 2015, a little girl named Chloe got up at six a.m. in her grandparents’ house and asked for breakfast. Then she asked if there was a Santa Claus. She found out when she went to the Smith Haven Mall in Lake Grove, New York, to see the right jolly old elf who made her laugh when she saw him in spite of herself. As a sometimes naughty boy who is trying to get on the good list so I can receive reindeer underwear for Christmas, I am not lying when I say that this Santa is the best I have ever seen. His real name is Ernest Johnson. But he is known in holiday circles, which look remarkably like wreaths, as Santa Ernie.

Santa Ernie has greeted good little boys and girls at Smith Haven every year since 2001. But he took the role long before that, in 1979, at the age of forty. “I told a little girl four years ago that I was six hundred and fifty-four, which makes me six hundred and fifty-eight now,” Santa Ernie said. “You don’t sound a day over four hundred and eighty-three,” I replied. He chuckled and said, “Being Santa Claus keeps me young.” When Chloe and I met him, he certainly looked the part. His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly. “Hello, Chloe!” he said cheerily, his blue eyes twinkling behind round spectacles. “Santa!” exclaimed Chloe, who will be three in March. She was accompanied by Sue, Lauren, Guillaume, and, of course, yours truly. Chloe wore a red Christmas dress, with a gift-box bow in her blond curls. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart!” Santa Ernie told