Posts tagged Charles W. Howard Santa Claus School
I Went To Santa School To Become A Professional Mrs. Claus
My morning skate in Bryant Park in New York City.

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.

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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.

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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What To Put In Your Claus-et
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Santa Fashion=Big North Pole $$$

If the suit doesn’t fit, don’t buy it. Hold onto your reindeer and what’s still in your wallet.

photo by Kitt Creative

I will miss being at Charles W. Howard Santa Claus School this year. I went in 2018 for the first time. It’s a special place I describe in this blog post. With Tom and Holly Valent as the directors, the focus is on the “heart of Santa” instead of the business and the busy-ness that can clog one’s mind.

But the business is important. We Clauses all need things to use and wear. At one of the hotels near Santa School, I breezed through the make-shift specialty store and found stickers, North Pole coins, striped socks, jingle bells, and all sorts of costumes—just not the right one for me—yet.

I was struck at just what a huge investment most of us make to become Santas (the gender-neutral word for Santas, Mrs. Clauses, and elves).

At Santa & Co., LLC., which had a display in the hotel, a good Santa robe starts at $699.95. Workshop overalls start at $309.95 because Santa has to have a standard work look. For thin Santas wanting to achieve that “bowl full of jelly” look, there are adjustable vest paddings for $174.95 with shoulder pads for $25 and 2 Kool Packs for $25. (Many Santas say the hardest part of their jobs is how hot they get, and no wonder).

Then there are shirts: button-down or pull-over with laces. Cotton or satin. Belts aren’t just belts but experiences, like the C.W. Howard Style Belt for $189.95 or the Cola Style Belt for $274.95.

Suits cost around $800, worth the investment. They come in a dizzying array of styles: Professional, Cola, New Classic, Classic. Many men I met knew exactly what each of these words meant. The Cola, for example, is based on the old-fashioned Coca Cola ads that emphasize the buttons down the front of the suit with no fur around the neck.

Now let’s talk fashion for Mrs. C.

At the store in the hotel, I tried on a gorgeous colonial dress that was several sizes too large. Right away, I felt it didn’t fit my personality. I felt ridiculous, even though I adored the style and concept. I did love the dresses that matched Santa’s suits. Made of red wool with satin linings and faux fur trim, they were excellent quality but not quite me. But almost.

Online, I’ve been finding offensively sexy outfits like this beauty:

$39.99, Neilyoshop on Amazon Prime. Note the fur booties for … warmth?

$39.99, Neilyoshop on Amazon Prime. Note the fur booties for … warmth?

No. Uh-uh. I have potholders bigger than this. Tiny elves wear more fabric.

This pretty one has the opposite problem, too much material for a big, animated girl like me. One swoosh of the voluminous skirts, and I knock down everything in my apartment while breaking my neck as I rush down the stairs or get caught in a cab door:

$199.99, Lightinthebox.com on Amazon.

$199.99, Lightinthebox.com on Amazon.

The nice standard ones on Amazon are so cute. I have one, but so does everyone else. And white fur doesn’t do well on the subway, my main form of transportation when I can’t use the sleigh.

What I’m looking for is the Mrs. C version of a Superman suit, something I can change into quickly in a bathroom stall, since NYC telephone booths are a thing of the past. I need something with pockets that looks dressy, like I’m going to Wall Street to check on cookies (and coal) stocks. Something with a high collar and detachable parts: a jacket, a skirt, and a blouse. I’m tall. I can’t hide it. So how about I look taller with vertical stripes? Something relentlessly cheerful in red and green with a bit of humor, a visual pun. This fantasy item must fit into a small NYC closet or a garment bag. No fur, please. Fur turns pink and is stressful.

If all of this sounds like an online dating profile, you’re sort of right.

My future dream garment will be with me for a long time, like a good Santa.

Since I can’t find what I want, I’m designing one—a garment, that is—not a sweetheart.

Related Article: “How To Gift Your Claus Clothing

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Mrs. Claus Comes Home to NYC
Ann+Votaw+the+author+holds+the+toy+duck+she+made+at+Santa+school+in+Midland%2C+Michigan+in+October+2018..jpg

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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