Tarzan Club proves you’re never too old to believe, nor too young not to

That’s me in front of my sister Storme, cousins Steve McCormack and Mike McCormack (in hat) and my dad in the living room of my grandparents’ house at Crab Orchard, probably 1965 or 1966.

There were only two conditions for joining the Tarzan Club. One was easy. The other — not so much.

This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity presented itself late Christmas morning in 1968. I had just turned 8 and was in third grade and my older cousin, who had invented the club and its rules (and who didn’t have a sister) was three years older and the big brother I never had.  Hating my sister was no problem (sorry, Storme). Not believing in Santa Claus? I’d never considered the possibility. My cousin explained how it all worked and I was stunned. Flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. It all made sense but still. I didn’t want to not believe. I couldn’t not believe.

I couldn’t not believe because Christmas on the mountain was always special, and Santa Claus, obviously, was a big reason. We (my sister and I) were always encouraged to keep our requests modest, and Santa Claus never let us down. Oh, he might occasionally pick out pick out the wrong brand, or confuse the proper ratio of fruit to candy in a stocking, but he always delivered. Always. Christmas morning was always fun at our house.

Our Christmas season usually began on Thanksgiving afternoon, with the gathering of the Grahams down at the old farmhouse in Howard Springs. The house would be full of Grahams and other kinfolk but Papa and Granny Graham never complained, not that I ever knew of anyway. We kids would play all sorts of games outside, coming inside to eat and to draw names for the Christmas gift exchange. Sometimes we’d play inside the house, especially upstairs in the big, open, low-ceiling loft where we all could sleep if we needed to, and we sometimes did.

We’d reconvene as Grahams on Christmas Eve, I think, and exchange gifts. It was basically a repeat of Thanksgiving, only with presents. It was always a good time.

Christmas was a big deal at school simply because classes usually drew names for a gift exchange on the last day before Christmas break (which was exciting unto itself). You were supposed to keep secret whose name you drew and we attached all sorts of useless meaning to that name, especially when one of us boys drew a girl’s name (or a girl had gotten a boy’s name). You also weren’t supposed to trade names but it always happened.

We also traded gifts. Popular and relatively inexpensive gifts for older elementary boys were die-cast cars like Hot Wheels or Matchbox, and model kits. That year I got a Hot Wheels car, one that I already had in my collection, so I traded for a model of some kind. I don’t know why I ended up with a model — I probably got stuck couldn’t trade for anything else (I was never patient enough to put models together correctly). My mother and I were at the little store near the house getting some model glue when we ran into the girl’s mother — the girl who drew my name and who were family friends from church. My mom laughed and asked her why she didn’t get me something that was already put together. The lady was surprised and said we did — we gave him a Hot Wheels. My mom was aghast. How did I wind up with a model kit? I told her that I traded for it — that we all trade gifts. She lectured me right there about receiving and appreciating a gift and how it’s more about the giver than the object. Keep what you get and be thankful for it. Keep any negative feelings to yourself. I was properly chastened and to this day I live by her words.

That was also the year I volunteered to bring the class a Christmas tree because, you know, my dad was a forester and trees were kind of his thing. Only I didn’t tell my dad that I’d done so until the night before I was to bring in the tree. He was not pleased. I remember riding with him the next morning to a deserted  section of the old Highway 127 South and finding a suitable tree. He came through, like he always did, while giving me an earful about respecting other people’s time. Another lesson learned.

Church was a big part of our family’s Christmas. Homestead Baptist would usually have a float in Crossville’s annual Christmas parade, which my family helped build. It was exciting wondering when the city of Crossville would put up the Christmas decorations on Main Street — all you knew was it would be after Thanksgiving but before the parade. Sometimes, though, they’d go up before Thanksgiving. At church, Sunday School classes spanning generations would come together for the Christmas service, which always featured a live nativity. Kids would play the adult characters, which was fun and everyone seemed to enjoy. 

As I’ve written before, I’ve long since drifted from organized religion but back then anyway, Christmas was a bifurcated affair. Santa Claus and all the secular trimmings were a huge and exciting part of our Christmas. But, in my world anyway, we never forgot about the baby Jesus. He and Santa Claus peacefully co-existed.

After enjoying the fruits of Santa Claus’ labor at our house on Christmas morning, we’d go to Crab Orchard to Granny and Grandpa Wright’s house (Vada Belle and Stanley) for yet another round of Christmas. This was my mother’s side of the family and for a long time she was the only one of her siblings in Cumberland County. Yet the others would always make every effort to get back for Christmas. We’d gather in my grandparents’ modest house, which would nearly choke on all the people and activity on Christmas Day, to celebrate with family — and to open another gaggle of presents.

And that’s where I would get to hang out with my older cousin, who always had something cool cooking, something like the Tarzan Club. God, I so wanted to be in the Tarzan Club but how could I not believe in Santa Claus? Santa had always been so good to me. I was confused. How could this be? Why make up all this Santa stuff? How long are you supposed to believe in Santa Claus? What happens if you don’t believe in Santa? Perhaps most confusing of all — what if my cousin was lying? What if he’s just saying that Santa isn’t real? I loved and idolized my cousin but I didn’t 100 percent trust him. I’d been bamboozled before.

All this ran through my head in a matter of minutes, as my cousin laid out the Tarzan Club and the reasons for disbelieving in Santa. I struck a compromise with myself — for Tarzan Club purposes, I’d cease to believe in Santa Claus. I just had to be in the Tarzan Club. But in my heart I would still believe, because I wasn’t ready to not believe. Maybe my parents were indeed Santa Claus but I didn’t want to know that. I liked Santa Claus and I liked that he was a big happy man who brought me and other kids toys and other things we wanted or needed. I still like that about Santa Claus, especially the bringing other kids some joy part. As naive as it might be, I still believe.

I also don’t hate my sister(s). And I’m still a charter member of the Tarzan Club.

rpdgraham@gmail.com