Santa & Son
Yes, Virginia, there is an ARTHUR RUGGLES. TO be precise, there are two of them, '37 and '66, and they make up what is probably the only father-son Santa Claus team in the country.
From late spring through Christmas Eve, one or the other can be found ensconced in his big chair by the fireplace in an opensided house on the grounds of Santa's Land in Putney, Vermont, talking with some 50,000 moppets who come singly, in pairs or groups; extolling the old-fashioned virtues of unselfishness, obedience, and tidiness; listening attentively to earnest requests, to protestations of exemplary behavior past and promises of better to come. Six days a week, it's Art '37; on Mondays Arthur III, known as Terry.
Art became Santa Land's part-time jolly old elfin 1964. Since 1970, when he took early retirement after 32 years of coaching skiing, lacrosse, and soccer at Deerfield Academy, he's made a second career of it. Until Terry recently joined the staff as public-relations man after several years in radio and advertising, Art was minding the hearth seven days a week, from early morning till late afternoon, without a break. It's bad image, he thinks, for children to come and find Santa out for a quick bite.
The image is important to Art, who feels his responsibility very keenly. "To a lot of these kids," he says, "I'm the number two guy back of Christ. So I listen, I back up the-parents and the teachers, and I concentrate on the positive."
His manner is low-keyed and gentle, with nary a "ho-ho," and he soon puts the shy and the awe-struck at ease. The approach is flexible, but the scenario ordinarily runs something like this:
One at a time or several together, the youngsters come up the path and into "the presence," with adults sequestered outside, observing more or less quietly through a large window. If it's one child or a family, Santa admires a pair of new shoes or a fancy cap; if it's a group, he settles them on the floor around him and asks questions. Is it a kindergarten or a Head Start class and from where? Have they been to the movie or seen the reindeer? Have they brought a picnic?
The ice broken, he talks about school and home. What do they do with toys when they've finished playing? Do they eat their vegetables? Do they go right to sleep at bedtime, without extra drinks of water? A plaintive query: "Is it all right to go to the bathroom?" a small boy asks. "If you have to," Santa replies, "but try to take care of it before you go to bed." The child sighs in visible relief.
To the obvious business at hand: Do they have lists of what they want for Christmas? Long ones? So much the better. That will help me choose what to bring you." Do they already have a lot of toys? If so, "why not sort them out and give some good ones to people who will fix them up for children who don't have so much?" "You didn't get the train you asked for last year? There weren't very many, and I thought someone else needed it more." There are never promises (here the parents sigh in visible relief) and rarely a flat "no." A request for a real rifle, for instance, gets no encouragement: "not till you've grown up a lot more and taken a gun safety course."
Then there are candy canes - accompanied by the reminder that the wrappers belong in litter cans - and pictures, for one child or a family, on or at the knee; for a group, outdoors in an antique sleigh, a gift from Deerfield's late Headmaster Frank Boyden.
Art gets along fine with the children. Rare is the young cynic brazen enough to test his beard for authenticity, although his luxuriant whiskers - both the real yak hair and the synthetics he finds more comfortable - get a lot of stroking. It's the grownups who give him a hard time: the smart alecks who shout "Let's hear it with a ho-ho" from across the park; the parents who drag tense, frightened kids up the path and shove them into the house; the grandparents who kibbitz loudly from beyond the barricade.
Christmas in July - or May or October - is routine for Art. Memorial Day is very big, Columbus Day Sunday generally the busiest of the year for the park. During the winter months when the tourist attraction is closed, he takes four weeks vacation. Otherwise he keeps busy with off-season chores, touring in the company-owned land cruiser with Vermont plates SANTA, making PR appearances, riding in parades, tossing out the ball to open local baseball seasons. And, truth be known, he took an extra day off in October for the Harvard game, where he got as drenched as an ordinary mortal.
On quiet days at Santa's house, the children are invited to peek into his bedroom, where Santa's nightshirt is neatly hung up, the bed carefully made. What they don't see behind the door are his Air Force and Reserve commissions, his citation for Class-Treasurer-of-the-Year, his Dartmouth diploma, next to the latest in an unbroken series earned by great grandfather Daniel Blaisdell 1827, treasurer of the College for 40 years; grandfather Edward R. Ruggles 1859, a faculty member for 33 years, and Arthur H. Ruggles '02, a former Trustee. Nor, as they leave with their candy canes, do they probably notice in the corner of the living room, two Dartmouth canes.
It takes a fine ear to detect the faint lilt of Big Green laughter in the Ruggles' "Merry Christmas to All."
