The inglorious tale of Santa Claus and the parachute

From Dec. 19, 2015:

Gather ‘round, kiddies, and sip some hot chocolate while kindly Uncle Clay tells you his all-time favorite Arizona Christmas story.

Yes, kindly Uncle Clay knows you’ve heard this story before, but this is the season for telling the old stories.

‘Twas 1932 and the Great Depression was squeezing Mesa like a miser holding on to his last nickel. Merchants were suffering alongside their customers. Things looked so grim there was talk of canceling the annual Christmas parade.

Enter John McPhee, editor of the Mesa Tribune and inveterate Mesa booster. McPhee had an idea. This was just five years after Charles Lindbergh’s aviation triumph. Barnstormers and stuntmen were all the rage.

McPhee’s plan was to have Santa Claus parachute into town to lead the Christmas parade. It was a stroke of genius. Anticipation ran high, and on the day of the parade downtown Mesa teemed with excited potential shoppers.

One problem: The would-be parachutist was found in a local bar, drunk as a skunk.

McPhee was not daunted. His quickly devised a backup plan. A mannequin dressed in a Santa suit would parachute from the plane while McPhee, also dressed as Santa, would conceal himself near the drop site, where he would pop up and lead the parade.

The crowd grew. Excitement was at a fever pitch as the small plane drew into sight and circled the downtown. Santa appeared at the plane’s hatch. He leapt. Or was pushed, actually.

The parachute did not open. The Santa-clad mannequin fell like a rock in full view of throngs of shocked children and their parents.

McPhee tried to pull it off with the parade, but the horror ran deep. Children could be heard weeping in their homes all over Mesa. It was a disaster.

McPhee left town until things cooled off. He continued a successful career as newspaper man and Mesa booster, but he is forever remembered as the man who killed Santa.