IT’S THE BEST TIME OF THE YEAR

[Geee]

:

From our December 1995 issue.

 

This time last year, I hap­pened to be in the town of Santa Claus, Indiana, char­tered on Christmas Eve, 1852. I drove down Candy Cane Lane, hung a right on Rudolph Drive, then swung left on Mistletoe Circle, a pleasant journey only slightly marred by the fact that all these agreeable thoroughfares are part of the exclusive Christmas Lake development. You have to go through an armed security gate to get in. As an image of the beleaguered American Christmas, it’s hard to beat: defen­sive, ring-fenced, and largely seen as the pre­serve of middle-class whites.

 

Those who gang up on Christmas are usu­ally the gung-ho PC schoolteachers, who insist that depictions of Frosty the Snow­man are grossly offensive to those of the non-Frosty faiths. But a year ago even Post­master General Marvin Runyon weighed in, declaring that the 1994 Christmas stamps would be the last, as a federal agency had no business promoting the symbols of a partic­ular sect. Runyon, however, has aggressively promoted several other sects: Elvis, for one, who since his inconclusive death has be­come a one-man Presleyterian church with a brisk trade in sacred relics for the devoted. (To launch the Elvis stamp, the Postal Ser­vice advised its staff to dress up in leathers, bobby sox, etc. My own postmistress in New Hampshire refused on the grounds that, as Elvis was a fat guy full of drugs who died on the toilet, he was an inappropriate subject for a postal issue.) Anyway, within a few weeks, the Postmaster’s plan was returned to sender. While in Santa Claus, Indiana, I went to the post office. “Merry Christmas,” I said provocatively. But Postmistress Sandy Colyon was ready for me. “A week ago,” she said, “I’d have had to say ‘Happy Holidays,’ but we’ve now been given a special dispensation from the Postmaster General allowing us to say ‘Merry Christmas.’ So Merry Christmas.” Phew. The great American Christmas is saved for another season.