Sam Venable  

Special Contributor

There are lots of reasons to feel sorry for Santa Claus this time of year. For one thing, he has to spend six weeks in hot department stores—in full uniform, no less—and entertain drooling, sneezing, crying, coughing, greedy children by the tens of millions.

If that’s not bad enough, his shop is certain to be a madhouse of last-minute activity. Think about it. Overworked elves snarling at each other, reindeer poop on every boot, bicycle chains and doll arms scattered all over the joint, Mrs. Claus whining about the mess. I bet the poor guy drinks Maalox by the gallon.

And then there’s “The Journey” itself. Arrgh! What a killer! I’ve been on some hectic whistle-stop tours in my life, but in my worst nightmare I can’t imagine having to slither down every chimney in the land. Not to mention having to do it in the span of a single winter’s night.

All that notwithstanding, surely the most frustrating experience for Santa Claus is trying to prove to grownups that he really exists.

Imagine being able to see other people and hear what they are saying, but they can’t see or hear you. Then imagine spending an entire year building Christmas gifts for your friends—but when you make the grand presentation, they shrug their shoulders and say, “Hmmmm. Wonder who did all this work?”

It’s enough to turn your hair white.

Fortunately for the big guy, there’s still a large contingent of adult followers. They believe in Santa Claus from the bottom of their hearts and souls. And all the logic this side of Socrates will not sway them.

My late uncle, Buck Spencer, was one of these people. After hearing his story, perhaps you’ll know why.

It happened a few years before the United States entered World War II. Buck was 22 years old, not long out of school, and into his first full-time experience as a wage earner. Johnson Paint Company had hired him to work in its Cincinnati office.

Funny thing about us humans. We’re creatures of habit. We always yearn to go home for Christmas, and Buck was no exception. He worked until closing time that Christmas Eve. Then he beat a path to the L&N depot, purchased a ticket and caught the southbound overnighter to Knoxville. Sure, he wouldn’t arrive until early Christmas morning, but what the heck. In matters of holiday homecomings with family and friends, late beats never, hands down.

But as he lay in his Pullman berth, nodding to sleep with the rhythmic clickety-clack below, Buck suddenly bolted upright.

Holy cow! This was Christmas Eve! The first Christmas Eve he’d ever been away from home! The first time he’d never hung up a stocking!

So Buck did what any rational person would do. He groped around at his feet until he found one of his socks. Then he dug into his ditty bag and produced a safety pin. And with peaceful knowledge that all was right with the world, he leaned from his berth and pinned the sock to the outside of the green curtain enclosing his quarters.

Uncle Buck has been dead more than three decades. His children and grandchildren are scattered from California to Georgia. But his stocking story is still a favorite with our family at Christmas. As far as I’m concerned, it proves positively that Santa Claus is alive and well and prospering in the hearts of all who believe.

He simply has to be.

How else can you explain that when the train pulled into Knoxville early Christmas morning and a homesick mountain boy arose from his bunk and eagerly prepared to meet his family, he retrieved that same sock from outside the curtain and found three pieces of chocolate candy nestled inside?!

Sam Venable is an author, stand-up comedian, and humor columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. He may be reached at mahv@outlook.com.