Jacki Chamberlain is on the right wearing her cherished green coat from Cheryl Claus, left, who died April 2018.

There’s an urban legend among Clauses. 

A beloved Santa died. His family had no idea how much his clothing was worth. So his $3,000 suit ended up in a thrift shop for $15.

If you’re a Santa, this tale is already horrifying. Your hand has probably landed on your mouth in shock. But it gets worse. A mother bought the gorgeous suit and cut the pant legs for her son’s Halloween costume.

I know!

Jacki Chamberlain, an Ohio Mrs. Claus, is here to help lovely things find good homes with wonderful people. She knows Kringle collections grow like forests and that gifts should go on giving, forever and ever. 

Last week, she and I talked on FaceTime. I showed her my Ikea shelving unit that currently holds summer clothes but will soon store thermal blouses and hand warmers, real sleigh bells, a cute little purse, wash cloths to remove stage makeup, sparkly earrings and accessories, and wrist- and elbow-length gloves in red and blue. Inside my closet, I hang a red tutu, a dark scarlet velvet jacket with ruffles, and a vintage 1930s red-orange dress with a rouched neckline. On a shelf inside a Tupperware bin, I stash a black and white skirt, three wigs (two from my grandmother), a bonnet, warm tights, and white faux fur. My hallway closet contains a jacket and a full red dress I covered with a sheet, so that the crimson doesn’t bleed onto the fur.

I live in NYC. Space is precious. So are my carefully curated costumes that say more about me than anything else I own.

Jacki walked me through her own Claus-et, more like an entire room with designated drawers for jewelry and racks devoted to a certain primary hue. I loved the backdrop she hung on the wall, an enlarged photo of her own kitchen that makes video calls with children more authentic. She even has a “staging area” to make sure she has all of her pieces in order before she walks out the door to an event. 

“People may not realize what the investment is,” she told me, “and it is an investment.”

In 2018 when a fellow Mrs. Claus passed away, Jacki was gifted several items from her sister-in-red's beautiful wardrobe. Attendees of Santa Nana Academy in Columbus, Ohio, also received items from this selection. “I know Cheryl’s with me when I wear something of hers, whether it’s a hat or a little pair of gloves,” Jacki says. 

In Gatlinburg, Tenn., at the 2019 Santa Family Reunion, she sold more of the items in a vending area. 

I bought several things from this angel Mrs. Claus, including a glorious pillbox hat with a veil and perky poinsettia and pom pom perched on top. As storytellers, we should wear pieces with history, even if we never reveal it or fully know ourselves. Here is the hat I bought, although I think Cheryl Claus wore it better.

Cheryl Claus with the dapper Santa Carlucci, her business partner. I bought this hat at a sale in Gatlinburg, Tenn. I am so happy to own it, especially because it is infused with such spirit.

Today, Jacki teaches members of the Buckeye Santas, a regional organization, how to record their prized possessions, so loved ones can pass them on to people who will love them.

With Jacki’s permission, I share from her one-page “Letter of Instruction” that is “a document that will asset your family in carrying out your wishes and distribution of property at your death. Not legally binding, but may prevent confusion and arguments.”

She suggests Santas create a spreadsheet that states something simple like: “I bequeath the following items of personal property to the beneficiaries below.”

Here are samples from Jacki’s template:

• ITEM-make sure to clearly describe the item(s) so it won’t be confused with a similar item.

• NAME-full name of recipient, not just Santa John, but John R. Jones

• CONTACT INFORMATION-include address, telephone number, email address, relationship to you.

• NOTES-

Here are examples of how to use the template:

• ITEM-Santa Walking Stick with Holly and Ivy

• NAME-Santa John R. Jones (Fellow Buckeye Member)

• CONTACT-555 Rideway Dr., Columbus, OH XXXXX, 555-555-5555, santajohnjones@yahoo.com

• NOTES-Item kept in the corner of my closet

To finish, sign and date the document. Because it isn’t legally binding, you don’t need witnesses or notarized signatures. (For that, you would need to consult a lawyer.)

Helpful instructions should include contact information for Santa organizations. Jacki also suggests writing your own obituary that includes your honors and Santa titles, like “founding member” or “past president.” Include a picture that best represents you as Santa, so loved ones know how you want to be remembered.

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My morning skate in Bryant Park in New York City.

I often wonder why Mrs. C chose me.

Slim and in my mid-40s, I am a tall, single New Yorker who ordinarily wouldn’t dream of making myself look older. I’m not domestic. In fact, I sometimes eat entire meals over my sink while my two cats stand sentry.

Help us tell more of the stories that matter from voices that too often remain unheard.

As a former musical theater dancer, I have always possessed a zeal for zany hats and vintage clothing. Today, I’m out of showbiz, but for the last several years, I have been working as a recreational therapist, incorporating dance into my job at a Jewish senior center.

Each December, my male actor pals put on red suits to earn a few extra bucks. When they told me stories of riding on top of fire trucks for local charities, I realized I wanted to do that.

Last holiday season, I spent hours searching for costumes online. Most of the clothing on Amazon was offensive — ranging from short dresses and thigh-high stocks to frumpy kitchen dresses and limp aprons. But as an experiment, I paired a black-and-white bustle skirt with my own red coat and a white lacy scarf. The crisp Edwardian look influenced me to gesture like a classy older woman.

I asked the leaders of a neighborhood garden if I might attend the annual tree lighting as Mrs. Claus. “We can’t pay you,” one of the board members told me on the phone. “That’s fine,” I said, suddenly determined.

So I arrived at my first gig in a pompadour wig and an adorable green hat with a red bow. Once the tree was lit and carols sung, I did a little twirl. That’s when Mrs. C entered my soul. For the next three nights, I lay awake in bed smiling in the dark.  

Outside the Kringle-sphere, the news cycle churned out endless headlines about mass shootings, climate change and toxic masculinity. While I certainly wanted to stay informed, I had begun to feel helpless against the deluge of negativity. Mrs. Claus became my guardian angel. Where I felt weak, she was unflappable. As an ageless humanoid, she had witnessed history repeating itself for centuries. Moving forward was her personal brand; at least that’s how her spirit expressed itself in me.

After that first gig, I perused every St. Nick forum I could find. Although I was late for getting jobs during the 2017 season, I thought I might have a jump on next December. Needing sturdier credentials, I applied for a scholarship to the Harvard of Christmas institutions, the Charles W. Howard Santa Claus School in Midland, Michigan.

By April, I learned I had won a scholarship to the school from the International Brotherhood of Real Bearded Santas, a professional organization that sets high standards for Christmas characters.

“You’re serious about this,” my girlfriends told me. “It’s about time we had a feminist Mrs. Claus.”

Except my Mrs. C wasn’t trying to make a political statement. As I let her speak to me and take over a quarter of my closet with crimson jackets and tulle, I developed a picture of her spouse. Because Santa was such a caring CEO, best friend and lifelong sweetheart, gender discrimination didn’t exist at the North Pole. They were confident, both together and apart. How I’d like to find that in my own romantic life.

In October, on the first frosty morning of Santa school, I went to the hotel’s breakfast buffet to see nearly 20 real-beards and a few designer-beards drinking coffee and hanging out. (In the Santa community, “real-beards” grow their own whiskers. “Designer beards” appear as themselves in their workaday lives. For events, they glue on waves of luxurious white hair.)

“Merry Christmas!” I shouted, so excited I felt like I was 7-years-old. “Merry Christmas!” they yelled back.

The hardest part of the training would be to hold in my elation, so I wouldn’t crash the rental car or faint when I met fellow pupils, 200 men and 50 other women.

In the arts center’s auditorium, deans Tom and Holly Valent (her real name) motioned for us to stand up and sing “Jingle Bells” and “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” They told us we would learn stage makeup, beard and wig care, and how to develop believable stories about the North Pole. While we would touch on entrepreneurial aspects of the biz, the Valents would focus on the “heart of Santa.”

My own Santa memories are my most cherished. When I was a little kid in Indiana, my parents got me and my younger brother dressed up to meet the big man at the mall each year. I still feel the magic — the genetic impulse to gasp every time I see St. Nicholas.

Now I was among an army of witty, jubilant Clauses in “casual dress” that included overalls, newsboy caps and yards of plaid. I wore a green blouse and a giant feather corsage.

During an evening break, we Clausian cousins wandered the streets of downtown Midland, an industrial city located between the Mitten State’s thumb and pointer finger. Drivers honked and snapped photos through the windshields.

With Tom Valent of Charles W. Howard Santa Claus School.

On Main Street, we visited the Santa House, a fantastical building featuring real falling snow, model trains, and actual reindeer. Here, I linked eyes with a gorgeous Mrs. Claus from Ohio. Even though we didn’t know each other, we laughed together.

On the final day of classes, we Clauses met up at a construction site to make wooden ducks in the workshop. Once I finished my old-fashioned push toy with flapping vinyl feet, I sauntered over to a nearby warehouse, where Midland’s parade sleigh was stored. Santas lined up all the way to the door for a chance to pull the reins on the lifelike reindeer.

At the front of the queue, I spotted Mrs. C from Ohio. She was taking videos for each grown adult who wanted to drive the sleigh through the midnight sky. Again, our eyes met and we got the giggles.

Back in New York, I showed my vacation photos to everyone, including the warden during my jury duty. “Wow,” the warden told me in his heavy Queens accent. “Everybody looks so happy.” 

In Chinatown, shopkeepers lit up when I handed them business cards that stated: “Caught being nice.” They gave me extra discounts for all my new costume purchases that included faux white fur and a copy of Princess Diana’s engagement ring, loose enough to fit over my scarlet gloves.

My wardrobe now included a floor-length dress for more formal affairs and two additional wigs, thanks to my grandma’s contribution. But finding paid or voluntary gigs in the big city was harder than I expected.

On GigSalad, an online platform that matches performers to events, I receive three inquiries a day — for Santa. When I write back explaining I’m a charming Mrs. Claus, I rarely get a response. If I do, the explanation is this: “We’re looking for just him.”

Santa was born in New York City, an incarnation of the Dutch Sinterklaas, later transformed into the guy we admire each year in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Party planners are open to hiring her, but his iconography overshadows hers so much that I may need to strategize differently than Mrs. Cs around the United States, where her legend is picking up momentum.

So far the only New York gig I’ve done this year was the garden party where I got my start. But in my hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana, I had no trouble working the Holly Trolley during Small Business Saturday. Last weekend in Connecticut, a Santa agent and former Ringling Bros. clown took me on as his “latest wife” for a yacht club event. Children naturally gravitated toward him, but the babies preferred Mrs. Claus. As temporary life partners, we had a blast together.

I picture Mrs. Claus ringing the bell to the New York Stock Exchange. In the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, I envision a dialogue between Santa and her, because Mr. and Mrs. C sparkle like Meghan Markle and Prince Harry. Together, their charisma could illuminate the planet.

Until then, I’ve been going out as her a few times a week to promote her brand and to practice. When subway conductors see me running in a bonnet and fur-trimmed dress, they hold the doors open just for me. At Rockefeller Center, a fake Minnie Mouse ripped of her head to inform a fake Elmo that “Mrs. Claus is here!” In my apartment building, I rocked the world of a pair of stoners when I knocked on their door. “Holy ssshh—!” they exclaimed, pushing through clouds of smoke. “It’s Mrs. Claus.”

Yet my favorite Mrs. C story is when I was at the grocery checkout dressed as myself. “There’s something about you that reminds me of Christmas,” the young clerk told me.

“That’s because I’m Mrs. Claus,” I informed him.

This article first appeared in Huffington Post in 2018.

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A high-flying Mrs. C

I would never dream of taking jobs away from elves or cab drivers.

Even as a cynical woman in her mid-forties, I believe in the spirit of Santa Claus.

Since I can’t be him, I hoped to become a gregarious Mrs. Claus in a city known for its transportation challenges.

I first portrayed Santa’s wife 2017 at an Upper Manhattan tree lighting. I was inexperienced, in the wig and bustled skirt I bought from Amazon, but children read me story books from the vintage suitcase I carried. An aspiring public servant asked my first name — I think he was flirting. “Missus,” I told him sweetly. A local activist asked me numerous questions. Once she felt she could trust me, she wilted beside me on a garden bench. “Oh, Mrs. Claus,” she divulged. “I’ve been to too many protests. I’m so tired.”

For several nights, I was too happy to sleep. In character, I became a mirror that reflected everyone’s better angels, including my own. Mrs. Claus has lived rent-free in my soul ever since. Her crimson wardrobe has taken over a quarter of my precious closet space and a portion of my anxious mind.

A few months into 2018, I applied for a scholarship to the Charles W. Howard Santa Claus School in Midland, Michigan. By spring, I learned I had won.

At the three-day training in Michigan, I was one of 50 women among 200 Santas, most of them men with long, white whiskers. Founded by legendary Charles Howard, a former Santa in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, the school included courses in beard grooming, tax law, and toy making. On the final day, I got to drive the school’s parade sleigh and pull the reins on its lifelike reindeer. “Ho ho ho!” I bellowed into the warehouse, where the sleigh was stored. The overall experience was more fun than any adult should be allowed to have.

When I returned to New York that late night in October, I held the wooden duck toy I had made that morning in the workshop. As I wandered through LaGuardia’s renovations, I felt so blissed out in my red beret and scarlet riding jacket that I stood out among locals dressed in black. But when they glanced at me with my feather corsage, they brightened and nodded. While I wasn’t wearing my wig and full costume, I felt filled with a lifetime of Christmas mornings.

Glowing like Rudolph’s nose, I floated to the cab line on a cloud of imaginary white fur. But the familiar yellow cabs weren’t there anymore. Uber had taken over. I pulled out my cell to order a pickup, but my battery had died. “Hello,” I called cheerily to the people in the queue. “Is anyone going uptown? I can pay half.” No one looked up from their screens, so I tried again, louder over the drills of a construction team.

Meanwhile, yellow cabs flew by us to another part of the airport.

I waved my hand vigorously, but the drivers shook their heads like I was high on glue. I went back inside the Delta terminal but found no one who could assist me. So Mrs. Claus — a resourceful dame of the tundra — took a deep breath, braced herself, and yelled “Help meeeeee!” into the Saturday night air. A construction worker stopped what he was doing to direct me through the scaffolding. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized. He escorted me through a plywood walkway to the hidden cab line, a scab of concrete much less visible than the queue for Uber.

“It’s okay,” I said, impressed that a little Christmas cheer provided such hospitality. “I’m not mad, but I need to get home to my cats.”

Immediately, a cab pulled up. Inside was the angriest driver in America. Tiny as a glass shard, she hoisted my bag into the trunk muttering expletives that could peel auto paint. “Uber and Lyft,” she grumbled. “I should have gone into accounting. The whole city is falling apart. No one can live here.”

As we sailed over the East River fueled on her resentment, she told me about the two fiancés who changed their minds. And by the way, did I mention how much she hated her job?

Then she grew thoughtful, “Did you make your bird?”

She was referencing my old-fashioned wheeled toy with its long handle and flapping leather feet. Trying to protect it from scratches, I held the duck awkwardly across my lap.

“Yeah,” I said. “I made it this morning at Santa school, in the workshop.”

 “What will they think up next?” she cackled and pressed her horn at the driver ahead who kept switching lanes. “You gonna be Santa? Santa?”

“Mrs. Santa,” I corrected her. “You’re a female cab driver. I’m a female who drives a sleigh.”

“What?” she exclaimed in full Brooklyn-ese. “You’re taking jobs away from the elves.”

I chuckled, but she wasn’t joking.

“You know the elves don’t drive the sleigh, right? It’s supposed to be Santa, but Mrs. Claus can do it too. They’re partners.”

“Oh.”

She was silent for several blocks. As we entered Upper Manhattan, where I live, I spied the top of her perm through the divider. She was thinking so hard I could almost hear her brain.

In front of my building, she popped the trunk and pushed my suitcase over to me on the curb. “Good luck,” she said, with what might have been a bit of respect. “There could be some money in this.”

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The duet behind The Santa Cast: George McTyre and Anthony Piselli.

I am so grateful to be on The Santa Cast with Santas George McTyre and Anthony Piselli. We discussed how Mrs. Claus can lead the parade or judge an ugly sweater contest. As George says, Mrs. C probably knits the ugliest sweaters. And that’s easy, since she herself oversees wool production from North Pole sheep. George, I am truly your sister from another mister. Next time you want to drive half-way across the country in a van, let me know. And Anthony, we will meet someday soon. Listen here for the latest!

Meet Ginger Spice

My new puppet, Ginger Spice, practically leaped off the vender table for me during the 2019 Santa Family Reunion in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. My new wireless sound system is in the background.

In the first few minutes of the 2019 Santa Family Reunion in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, I bought a gingerbread puppet and my own bluetooth sound system.

Since that March morning, I have been tinkering around with Ginger and learning about whether this cookie is a girl or a boy. He/she refuses to give me its official pronoun. I’m trying to respect its dignity, even while hiding it from Santa, who loves to eat gingerbread.

In the meantime, I have been enjoying the sound of my amplified voice here at the North Pole with my new system. Without pushing or straining my vocal cords, I can communicate to all the elves, even the babies like little Nigel.

My dream is to have a 15-minute one-woman vaudeville show I can perform at the drop of a hat, even as I pull magical things from my hat.

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