This is a Christmas memory of an older Sebastopol. It took place in a Sebastopol before tourism was encouraged, before there were any hotels, when the Barlow was just one of many apple processing plants in the area. This was before the Rialto, Peace Park, Skateboard Park, a town square or tree lighting. This was when Sebastopol was part of the Redwood Empire, not wine country.
When walking down Main Street in this Sebastopol, if you didn’t know everyone you passed, you at least recognized them as being Sebastopolians, and seen throughout your life in and out of Sebastopol’s daily activities.
Christmas shopping in Sebastopol was looked forward to all year long. The stores stayed open until 9 p.m. on Thursday nights. That is where friends were “run into,” visits took place, and season’s greetings were extended. Christmas shopping in Sebastopol was a town reunion of sorts. Among the shops were Rexall Drugs and Pease Pharmacy, Sprouse Reitz dime store, Jack Clark’s Men’s Clothing, The Village Shop for the ladies, the shoe store, two bakeries and the linchpin of downtown, Carlson’s.
Carlson’s was the department store of Sebastopol. Clothing and shoes for all ages and genders, housewares and fabric were its offerings. At Christmas time, Carlson’s was where the community’s children could make their visit to Santa Claus. His throne chair was on a raised dais surrounded by velvet-covered stanchions and chains to keep the little ones directed to Santa’s lap. It was here in Carlson’s Department Store at Santa’s throne that my favorite Christmas memory occurred.
My husband and I were enjoying the Thursday night Christmas shopping when we ran into a customer of our business. This man’s young son waited patiently holding his Dad’s hand while the two men visited, but casting glances at the empty Santa chair. Santa’s hours were over for the evening.
My husband noticed this young boy’s looks at the empty chair and said to him,
“Did you want to see Santa?”
The boy, of course, said yes.
“I’m Santa,” my husband told him.
“You don’t recognize me because I’m in my civvies, cause I’m off duty.”
The boy looked incredulously at my husband, but curious. Now my husband was tall, 6’2”, had hair so blonde his dad’s nickname for him was “Whitey.” He had a beard; however it was red, not white. His glasses, the “Workingman’s Special” were the proper wire-rimmed and rounded shape so often seen on pictures of Santa. He lacked a belly that “shook like a bowl full of jelly,” however. He was wearing his “going to town” clothes of the era, a wool Pendleton shirt, Levi shrink-to -fit 501 jeans and work boots.
“Come on, let’s go to sit in my chair and you can tell me what you want for Christmas,” my husband said as she scooped up the boy, climbed over the velvet-covered chain blocking the dais (never was one much for rules) and sat down in Santa’s chair with the boy on his lap.
The whole time our young friend was not sure what to believe, but went along with “Santa’s” actions as his father stood near.
I don’t remember what was asked of “Santa” for Christmas, but when the boy finished, “Santa” said, “Let’s see what I have for you,” as he reached into the velvet bag that sat deflated at his feet. Rummaging around inside, his hand found one last candy cane which he pulled out then presented to the boy with.
“Here you go. Have a Merry Christmas!”
With that, “Santa” got up, carried the boy and himself over the velvet chain, placed him on the floor, and visited a bit more with the dad while the boy held his candy cane looking in wonder at my husband. I didn’t know if he really believed he had just visited Santa until we said goodbye to his dad and started to walk away, our backs to the father and son. As we did, I heard the boy’s voice quietly call out, “Goodbye Santa.”
That was old town Sebastopol.
Thanks for the memory, Santa.
