The Origins of Old Saint Nick

When I was very young, a figure representing Santa Claus held sway at the top of our Christmas tree.

Fitting over the tree's top like a cone, this Santa had a flowing white beard, but his countenance was more dignified than merry. Instead of a cheerful red suit, he wore a robe of pinkish brown with a pointed hood.

How well I remember standing in the sunroom of Gran's house in Kentucky, staring up at the wondrous spruce which reached to the ceiling and was covered with hand-me-down ornaments and shimmering lights.

And beneath its branches were the trucks and sleds and packages just waiting for their decimation by the three little Varner boys. I, the middle one, was in awe that Santa could bring so much down the chimney with him. Clearly he had extraordinary powers.

A few years later, having been dispossessed of Santa's Herculean feats by my older brother, Ham—short for Hamilton—I nonetheless clung to an idealized notion of what Santa should be.

That fellow on top of our tree continued to trouble me. He had the makings for Santa all right, but those clasped hands and the head, enveloped by a cape rather than a coat, made me think twice. It was as though Santa were a sober judge or some kind of mournful monk.

Where was the laughing, jolly Santa who threw his arms out wide to take me in? Where was the spirit of Christmas? I was determined to get to the bottom of this.

"That is not Santa Claus," I announced to my mother one year, pointing to the top of our tree.

"That Santa was on my tree when I was a little girl and on Gran's childhood tree before that," she said. "It's traditional. We love it." So much for my rebellion.

More than 70 years have passed since I was a boy. And, happily as it turned out, tradition still holds its own. The solemn Santa continued to reign in his honored spot atop Varner family Christmas trees—first at Ham's, and later at the homes of his son, Gordon, and daughters, Jenny and Becca. Even as I respected it as a treasured keepsake of our family, I secretly harbored my old suspicions: Who did this robed figure think he was, passing himself off as Santa Claus? And then one day I had a revelation.

Last spring I was on one of the cruises I love to take, this one to the Middle East. When our ship docked in southern Turkey, I took my guidebook and set off to wander the ancient land. Strolling in the garden of a beautiful Byzantine church erected in the eleventh century, I stopped in surprise. Before me was a life-size statue of a dignified man with a flowing beard, garbed in a hooded robe with a peaked top. Statues of a little boy and girl stood beside him.