When I was nine years old, hopelessly jaded, cynical and wise, I told the six-year-old neighbor girl, Judy Hamilton, from across the street, and her little sister Laura, that there was no Santa Claus.
Later in the day, Martha Hamilton, a very tall woman, walked across the street and without referring directly to my world-weariness, told me from her great height that she wished I had not told her daughters that there was no Santa Claus.
From that day forward I kept my wisdom to myself and never ever again even thought about telling someone that there was no Santa Claus. Then, around the time I was in the 35th grade, a couple of things happened. By then I was a father; Jessie was 10 and Tyler was eight. We went to Disneyland on an off-season day when workers were repairing the Fantasyland Castle. They had erected scaffolding. Until that moment, whenever I had looked at the Castle from Main Street, it had soared into the sky like the spires of European cathedrals. But I knew the dimensions of scaffolding, and against that grid of data, the Castle seemed no bigger than an ordinary house.
I looked into the wide eyes of Jessie and Tyler and realized they didn't know the dimensions of scaffolding; they hadn't had time in their young lives to acquire such data. If they had, I was instantly convinced, Disney would put up that scaffolding only at night and take it down before opening the next day, so the kids would still believe in the Castle. For me, data had become the decay of imagination. And my imagination woke up when I screamed at it that day, still in good working order. I have kept it that way ever since. It may have been that very day that I decided the best possible life would be to have the imagination of a six-year-old, and the experience of a 65-year-old.
From that experience rose a teaching point. In discussing imagination, I will ask my students: "Can animals talk?" They remain noncommittal. I ask: "Who is the most famous talking animal in the world today?" One or two will say, "Mr. Ed." I have no idea where these 2008 college students learned of Mr. Ed, or why he should sport such qualifications, but there it is. Then I prompt them: "This talking animal oversees an international entertainment empire that has made billions of dollars. We gladly pay sixty-five dollars to go to his park and talk to him. We will buy his ears and take them home and WEAR THEM." And then someone says, "Mickey Mouse!" Correcto.
Actually my favorite talking animal is Hobbes, from "Calvin and Hobbes," and I have a developing affection for the rat who starts his own restaurant in "Ratatouille." But you get the point. A guy will pay $45 (including popcorn and a small coke) to take his girl to a movie starring Shrek.
Then, some time close to the Disney experience, at Christmastime, I was in a mall, shopping, when shoppers in malls were still shoulder-to-shoulder. I never go to malls. Going to malls and hip replacement surgery are only a couple of spaces apart in my list of preferences. I crawled under a bench and said to myself: "What am I doing here?" I knew that somebody like me was there for only one reason: to put presents under Christmas trees. That made me feel better. A jolly old spirit was with me. I wasn't entirely crazy.
Then I thought: if Mickey Mouse can talk, can't Santa Claus give? Absolutely. He just needs a lot of helpers. Elves, if you will. Do I believe in elves? Sure I do. I am one.
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