From our December 1995 issue.
This time last year, I happened to be in the town of Santa Claus, Indiana, chartered on Christmas Eve, 1852. I drove down Candy Cane Lane, hung a right on Rudolph Drive, then swung left on Mistletoe Circle, a pleasant journey only slightly marred by the fact that all these agreeable thoroughfares are part of the exclusive Christmas Lake development. You have to go through an armed security gate to get in. As an image of the beleaguered American Christmas, it’s hard to beat: defensive, ring-fenced, and largely seen as the preserve of middle-class whites.