Consider the Kringle

On the tradition of department store Santa

Santa’s not real. He’s just a story. There’s no magical flying reindeer or naughty and nice list - it’s just parents that buy all the gifts and they are pretending. 

This is what his mother and I have told our son since he could understand the words coming out of our mouths. We didn’t want to be assholes; we’ve just made it a point to always be honest with him.

My son is now five years old. He informs me that he doesn’t care to visit Santa’s house at Utica Square this year. He’s been once before when he was a baby. He tells me that I’ll have to go on my own. I can’t blame him; he’s got no skin in the game. I mean, why are you going to stand in line all night to see Santa when you know he’s not responsible for your holiday haul?

I remember my fifth Christmas well. It was the first one after my parents split; I realize that my son and I share this distinction as I stand in line waiting to see the jolly one. I spent part of that holiday in a trailer home my father rented in North Central Oklahoma at the Camel Back Ranch - a piece of land I can only guess was named for its rumpled terrain, or maybe its lack of water. Dad harvested a little Charlie Brown tree and we decorated with popcorn and cranberry garland that we threaded on fishing line. I got to open a present early due to good behavior at a holiday dinner where I was the only child. I had all of my father’s attention that Christmas. In that way, it’s become one of my most memorable.

Utica Square is Tulsa’s commercial-intensive Central Park. Originally built in 1952 on the outskirts of town by over 5,000 craftsmen, it’s now pocketed in the old money section of Midtown Tulsa. Aesthetically speaking, it’s about as good as it gets for an outdoor shopping center. 

Starting on Thanksgiving night, Utica Square is lit like a manger in a nativity. Millions of white lights thread their way over and through the naked branches of maples and elms dotting the landscape and wind their way down the trunks, mercilessly strangling them in electric cheer. Larger than life size nutcrackers are placed throughout the plaza; big red bows and garland swaddle all horizontal structures. 

Maps are available which notate the location of four “Nutcracker Vignettes” scattered about the property. The characters inside the lit boxes, with their rosy cheeks and moon faces reading from scrolls of Olde English print, along with the chimney red phone boxes at the intersections give the whole thing a kind of hung-over Dickensian vibe. One might half expect to hear vendors offering specials of figgy pudding or to be handed a bag of fresh roasted chestnuts from a tattered, fingerless glove. A “War on Christmas” it ain’t.

Throughout the square, bell choir music is piped in, the usual score of MUZAK replaced by hymns. Santa’s house appears to be a storage shed dressed with a red shingled roof, forest green shutters and window boxes filled with fake poinsettias. The sign says that a visit with the old elf is free, but pictures (even if they’re taken with your phone) cost ten bucks. Santa accepts credit cards and can swipe them with a device on his iPad. The line is about 80 deep I guess, including parents and their children, on one of the nights I show up to stalk the jolly one and his wife. The weather is Spring-like–cool, but balmy.

The department store Santa thing, that’s always been a money grab. The first store to employ the Kris Kringle was Edgar’s out of Brockton, Massachusetts, in 1890. Its owner, a Scottish immigrant named James Edgar, thought it would boost sales if Santa were on the premises. Within a couple of years people were taking the train from Boston and Providence to see the shop with St. Nick. Edgar’s and its offshoots had a good run, officially going out of business in 1989, over 100 years after they opened. The business’s obituary lists its struggle to compete with chain stores and its unwillingness to move to the suburbs as its likely cause of death.

Miss Jackson’s in Utica Square is celebrating its 105th year in business in Tulsa. It will be its last. Opened in 1910 as a lingerie shop in the balcony of a jewelry store downtown, Miss Jackson’s became the anchor of Utica Square in 1965. Spokespersons for the flagging department store claim that people may just no longer be willing to pay premium prices for quality goods and exceptional service. But it ain’t Wal-Mart that’s killing Miss Jacksons, it’s Anthropologie - a store not exactly known for its discount pricing. Maybe Miss Jacksons didn’t do enough to entice the next generation of potential customers, or maybe they didn’t keep it fresh. It’s a tough position to be the one tossed away after so many good years. Perhaps there’s no rational explanation. Sometimes people just want change.

I feel self-conscious standing in line with no kid, but decide against giving it much thought after a few minutes. Besides, I don’t want to wait until 10:00 PM for Santa to clock out before I get to talk to him. My editor’s idea was to give this article my regular “Day Drinking” treatment, but you know, with Santa. I was all for it, but the brass at Utica Square informed me that Santa has a strict “No Alcohol” policy and that he could not participate in any such event.

While on line, I hear “The Twelve Days Of Christmas” jangling out from some tinny speakers near the Claus residence and I’m reminded of how much I’ve always hated that song, with its antiquated British sentiment. I lean into the lyrics for what I realize is likely the first time, and realize that most of the offerings described are either food or entertainment based. Curiously, the song does slow for the only material prize, “five gold rings,” but it’s a far cry from the modernized American materialism in say, “Santa, baby.”

As I enter the shrunken home of Mr. and Mrs. Claus, the latter informs me that I must have “forgotten someone.” I explain that I’m writing a piece and that I’d like to ask a few questions. “I’ll pay,” I say. Santa agrees, but asks that I be brief. My questions are surgical, but Santa gives me rehearsed answers. I could’ve saved myself the trip, I think. Mrs. Claus asks if I have children and asks the requisite follow up as well. “He doesn’t believe in Santa Claus,” I tell her - and then I tell her why. Santa says he has heard this is a parenting trend these days. I tell him I don’t think he’s in any occupational danger. As I get up to leave, Mrs. Claus hands me a pre-packaged sugar cookie to take home to my son and I hand her a $20 and thank them for their time. Perhaps out of guilt, or maybe even habit, Santa asks, “And what do you want for Christmas?” 

“Maybe a little magic,” I say.

“You have to believe,” Santa says.

For more from Beau, read his interview with Theatre North's Maybelle Wallace.