It’s 7:20 a.m. and the July sun is beginning to blaze over a tiny mall in Branson, Mo., where 288 Santa Clauses are growing anxious for the parade to begin. Red velvet suits aren’t designed for the heat, nor are black leather boots. And those thick white beards-real beards, every one of them-aren’t exactly ventilated.
At one point, an argument erupts between a faction of Santas who want the various Mrs. Clauses included in the festivities and those who feel the wives’ participation would make this parade look silly. But mittens stay on, no punches are thrown, and by the time the first notes of “Jingle Bells” blare through the sound system, the Santas have regained their good cheer and they begin marching-sans females.
While some kids lining the parade route seem confused by all the St. Nicks, most are overjoyed at the sight, including 6-year-old Audrey Hislip of Vincennes, Ind., who chirps, “Hi Santa! Hi Santa! Hi Santa!” as the Christmas clones stride past.
The occasion is the first International Convention of the Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas, and the weirdness has just begun.
The iconography of Santa is as familiar as it is singular. We’re used to seeing just one red hat, just one red suit at a time. So spotting two Santas in the same place, let alone 288, is a jarring experience. You half expect Elvis to show up and . . . wait a minute . . . there is an Elvis impersonator working the crowd.
When there are this many Kris Kringles in one place, you note differences. There are those who resemble Ernest Hemingway, others who evoke Walt Whitman and still others-in gaudy red hats and velvet suits-who look like pimps. Bejeweled canes don’t dispel that likeness, nor does frequent use of the word “ho.”
The sharpest dresser today is the host of this convention and president of the Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas (AORBS) Tim Connaghan, 58, of Riverside, Calif., who founded the group a decade ago after meeting other right jolly old elves with genuine beards during a Christmas commercial shoot.
“Sometimes people do think of us as a bit eccentric,” says Connaghan. “It’s just about spreading joy.”
Of the requirement that members grow their beards rather than purchase them, he says: “I know some wonderful people with fake beards. [But] some people like Cadillacs and some like Chevrolets. Maybe we’re Cadillacs.”
A survey conducted by Connaghan found that the average real-bearded Santa is 59 years old and has been donning the red suit for about 11 years. Most laugh like you’d expect Santa to laugh-even in normal conversation, which is either charming or bizarre. And while some employ fat packs to fill out their red suits, the majority are heavyset, their average weight being 256 pounds.
While some AORBS members work as mall Santas, they much prefer paid appearances at parties or volunteer work at hospitals or homes of ailing children. Many view such service as a form of lay ministry. If a child is dying in June, there’s no reason not to have Christmas early.
After the parade, a few Santas introduce themselves to Michal Faith, a local woman who is holding a sign reading, “Mrs. Santa Claus in training! Santa needed! Apply now!”
Some Santas are enjoying a discreet cigarette or using the bathroom at the mall’s diner- “feeding the reindeer” is the euphemism. These are just regular guys, of course, but there is something upsetting about seeing Santa sucking on a Marlboro or exiting a men’s room stall. It’s even more dispiriting when St. Nick bypasses the sink on his way out the door.
Soon all are back at the nearby Radisson, having changed into red-hued casual wear (the weekend is awash in red) and taken seats in a large hall where a Marine color guard presents the American flag as the Santas solemnly place their right hands over their reindeer vests.
After receiving a standing ovation-quite a feat with this crowd-Connaghan explains that this weekend is “not a gimmick. We have real workshops.” He proceeds to introduce the celebrity guest of honor, Cold War comedian Yakov Smirnoff, who earns hearty ho-ho-hos with lines like this: “When you sit on Santa’s lap in Russia, he tells you what you’re not getting this year.”
WHEN THE LAUGHTER STOPS, the workshops begin. Held in conference rooms throughout the hotel, the sessions focus on the business of portraying Santa. A sampling of Friday’s events:
– A “Santa and the Media” seminar begins with the moderator’s cautionary tale about being duped into going on Howard Stern’s radio show. The mere mention of the prototypical shock jock elicits harrumphs from the audience.
– During the seminar “You Are an Artist: Act & Think Like One,” moderator Cliff Snider says, “Stop fearing that your friends and family will think you’re crazy.” This earns applause and the jingling of sleigh bells.
– There is a somber tone during a seminar about dealing with children with special needs. Towering, deep-voiced moderator John Scheuch provides tips for Santas to keep their emotions in check when visiting sick children. It’s a touching presentation, delivered with sufficient sincerity to make you forget that the gentleman seated next to you is wearing red-and-white tights.
– The seminar “Care & Feeding of Santa’s Beard” draws one of the largest crowds, in part because these are among the vainest men in the U.S. and because they seem smitten with the moderator, Joyce Beisel. White-haired and attractive, Beisel claims to be the nation’s premier Santa hairdresser, doing bleaching and styling for dozens of Santas a year in Roswell, Ga. A six-hour treatment at her salon requires the men to breathe through a tube so as to not inhale the noxious fumes from white hair dye.
“The beard is a totally different animal than the hair,” she says, as the audience scribbles notes. Later, she sells products to a clamoring crowd that includes David Willis, of Lafayette, Colo., who spends $115 on conditioner and gel.
By the time the final workshop wraps up late Friday afternoon, most Santas are dragging. A few gather for cocktails in the hotel lounge, while at a steakhouse across the street a handful of others are devouring T-bones while patrons seated at the bar wonder what’s been put in their drinks. But for the most part, it’s a silent night.
Real-bearded Santas start their days really early. By 7 a.m. Saturday, the hotel restaurant is filled with hefty guys doing serious damage to the all-you-can-eat buffet.
One table is populated by Illinois AORBS members, including Palatine’s Berni Knepper, who gushes about the sense of fellowship at this convention. Mel Koch, of Quincy, describes the liberation he experienced in growing out his beard. And Elmhurst’s Bernie Johnson articulates the mindset of most AORBS members when he says: “I don’t play Santa. I am Santa.”
As Koch puts it: “In a group, we’re Santa’s ambassadors. When I’m alone, I’m Santa.”
Two convention attendees have legally changed their names. The hotel registry includes one Nicolas S. Claus, of Seattle, and Martin Santa Claus Lebowitz, of Chandler, Ariz. Lebowitz says he felt he was lying to the children before petitioning the court for the change. And as for a Santa named Lebowitz? “Oh, there are quite a few Jewish Santas,” he says. “This is not a religious thing. It’s from the heart.”
When breakfast ends, many head to the vendor rooms, where two dozen retailers display their wares. There are designer Santa suits with $400 price tags (70-inch belts sold separately), and high-tech vests with cooling pouches that can be worn under heavy coats. T-shirts with Christmasy slogans are available up to size XXXXXL, and little vials of Santa Scents-perfume scented like cocoa and warm cookies-are on sale for just a few dollars.
The second round of workshops begins just after breakfast. A recap of Saturday’s events:
– Extra chairs are needed to accommodate the crowd that turns out for the seminar titled “Santa Ethics,” which covers everything from the proper placement of Santa’s hands during hugs to whether it’s his job to reprimand unruly elves. The conversation turns heated when one attendee asks peers about “gays and lesbians sitting on Santa’s lap.” There is near consensus that all are God’s children and thus entitled to sit on Santa’s lap. A question follows about allowing people in Ku Klux Klan suits to sit on Santa’s lap. The room fills with noise as a debate ensues.
– Two convention halls are joined to accommodate the attendees for the seminar “Dealing With the Male Peacock,” the only workshop earmarked for the 200-plus Mrs. Clauses at the convention. The women bemoan the long hours during the holidays, relate funny stories about over-excited children and trade tips for providing support to their husbands. Many enthusiastically connect to their husband’s persona. The vanity license plate on the vehicle belonging to white-haired Irene Long, of Seattle, reads “HoX3.”
With the second day of seminars under their plus-sized belts, the conventioneers seek a little entertainment. It awaits them on the Branson Belle Riverboat Cruise. Some 500 Mr. and Mrs. Clauses don their best Christmas-themed formal wear and board charter buses as passersby snap photos of the spectacle and children probably wonder why Santa’s wife is showing cleavage.
Aboard the bus, I make the mistake of asking if St. Nick sings on road trips. I’m answered by a thunderous medley of carols. By the time they get around to “White Christmas,” accompanied by harmonica and sleigh bells, I’m imagining our bus plunging into Table Rock Lake, with horrifying news footage of rescue workers pulling dozens of drowned Santas from the murky water.
By the time the cruise boat returns to the dock-after hauling what is surely its heaviest passenger load to date-the moon is high in the sky and the Santas stroll back to their buses.
One bus driver has summoned his family, which waits near the loading zone, the kids’ beaming faces shining in the moonlight. Reversing the scene to be played out in malls everywhere four months from now, the Santas are the ones waiting their turn to greet 4-year-old Emma Howie and her cousin Ian McGoldridge, 5.
As one Santa leaves the little brood, another slips into performance mode, producing a sucker and a balloon to be made into a giraffe. And while the kids are grinning, the widest smiles crack amid bushy white beards.
