Santa Claus and Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies by Tara Kingston

Yes, Dear Reader, There is a Santa Claus

By Tara Kingston

I indulge in a love affair every year at Christmas time with an older man who has a bit of a weight problem and truly never heard of the Atkins diet, but he’s a flashy dresser with an even flashier means of transportation. He’s generous, possibly to a fault, and I don’t usually go for a big, ZZ-Top style beard, but he’s the exception. My home is filled with images of this man—his face is even on my Christmas ornaments. My husband doesn’t mind my interest. He’s not in the least bit jealous. In fact, my darling husband, a man who reminds me more than a little bit of Clark Griswold, searched Ebay to find an old, somewhat cheesy plastic rendering of him that was first crafted in the sixties. So, who is this mystery man?

You guessed it—Santa Claus, that jolly resident of the North Pole who now attracts NORAD’s interest every Christmas Eve. Long before Santa’s sleigh was tracked on radar, Santa became an indelible part of American culture. A century before Macy’s Thanksgiving parade ushered in the Christmas season, the poem A Visit from Saint Nicholas introduced the image of Santa Claus that many Americans cherish. From the young toddler sitting on Santa’s lap to the homeowner competing with his neighbor to have the grandest light display in the neighborhood, the image of a jolly old man with a white beard, red suit, and reindeer at the ready brings to mind the joy and warmth of Christmas.

Amazingly, Santa’s image became a vital part of America’s Christmas tradition during the Civil War. Cartoonist Thomas Nast’s portrayal of Santa on the cover of the January 3, 1863 edition of Harper’s Weekly depicted Santa seated on his sleigh, complete with hat and beard,  presenting gifts to Union soldiers on the battlefield. Three decades later, an eight-year-old girl, Virginia O’Hanlon, wrote a letter to the New York Sun that spawned one of the most famous editorials in history, Francis Church’s response. Church, a former Civil War correspondent who’d seen man’s inhumanity to man in vivid terms, responded with the immortal line, Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. His touching, philosophical response viewed the existence of Santa in terms of love and goodness and giving.

One of my most enduring images of Santa emerged from the classic movie Miracle on 34^th Street. The classic film charmed generations. Remade decades later, the premise was the same – Santa is real, if only in our hearts. What a lovely message to remember during the holiday season.

What images bring Christmas to mind most vividly for you? Does mistletoe bring back memories of a treasured kiss, or would cookies for Santa stir memories of Christmas past? What signs of Christmas touch your heart?

Leave a comment for a chance to win my Civil War-era historical romance, Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies. One commenter will be chosen to win a free Kindle copy of the novel.

Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies is currently available exclusively for Kindle. Here’s a link:  Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies on Kindle

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Here’s a little teaser from Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies. In this scene, runaway bride Emma has fled her home in Washington, on her way to a rendezvous with the man she intends to marry against her father’s wishes. In this scene, Emma gets her first look at the man who will soon become her hero. So, what’s your first impression of Cole?

Here’s the snippet:

Someone had her in his sights.

Had she been followed?

If her father had sent some lap dog to fetch her–Mr. Tucker, his ever-agreeing assistant, most likely–the beleaguered fop could tuck his tail between his legs and head home. Papa had plenty of people to order about. She’d no longer be one of them.

Drat it all, she’d simply have to confront him.

She turned on her heel. A stranger met her gaze.

Definitely not Mr. Tucker.

Long, lean, and scowling, the man eyed her with an intensity that coiled heat in her belly and threatened to strip her bare. His lips curved into a trace of an arrogant smile as if challenging her to look away.

He wore a crudely tailored shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a vee of sun-bronzed skin feathered with dark hair. Deeper in hue than the neatly-clipped strands on his head, would the curls feel silky or crisp to the touch?

She blinked away the scandalous thought. Still, her mouth went dry.

His sinewy muscles strained against the cambric of his shirt. Sunlight glinted off the manacles on his wrists.

He was a prisoner, flanked by two towering Union soldiers. Sparing one of the guards a glance brimming with defiance, he turned back to Emma. The sweep of his appreciative gaze trailed from her demure hat to the hem of her sky-blue traveling skirt. His expression penetrated her.

She felt exposed, vulnerable.

Hunted.