The Santa of My Childhood

I heard today that the Santa Claus of my childhood died. Not that we believed in Santa, Christmas being about Jesus. But if there were a Santa, I thought as a child, he’d have to be like Ken Troyer. I didn’t know anyone as generous as Ken Troyer, at least not to our family.

We were his project, our family of nine. My mom stretched my dad’s meager pastors’ salary far enough to feed us all. But not much was left for fun. And this became Ken’s calling.

Lucky for us Ken worked at the big JC Penny store in downtown Flint. There he might see a too-good-to-be-true sale or a slightly-damaged return. And some of these deals found their ways to our house—sometimes something useful like living room curtains; but other times something entirely extravagant like an electric race track large enough to fill the top of a ping-pong table.

And lucky for us that Ken had friends with cabins Up North, that magical playground below the Mackinac Bridge. Lots of our friends packed their cars on Friday nights and headed north to their cabins. It felt like a different country, they told us. They could build fires and see the stars and get away from Flint with its sirens and belching factory smokestacks. Ken talked to a friend, who gave us a week at his cabin, free.

But of all Ken’s generosities, the one that touched me most was the Jingle Jump skipping toy. Jingle Jumps were the rage at recess. Kids would strap the toy over the shoe of one foot, start swinging the string with the ball, and jump over the string with the other foot. All over the playground you could hear the jingling of bells hidden in the toy. Here and there, you could hear the singing of the Jingle Jump song.

When you're feeling down in the dump,
Get up and bounce to the Jingle Jump.
Just Jump.
That's all you've got to do.
Just jump.

I wanted a Jingle Jump. But I couldn’t ask my parents. So I made one. I cut up an old rubber boot and laced it around my foot with twine. I tied a shoestring to the twine and glued a toy ball on the end. It worked . . . kind of. But it was a sad affair. And it didn’t jingle.

Ken must have noticed. One day he stopped by our house, this time with a wrapped package. And it was for me.

“Thought you might like this,” he said.

Ken Troyer was my Santa Claus, for sure.

At his funeral this week, I’ll remember this kindness. And I’ll reflect on what it taught me—that generosity can reach far into the soul.