Category: Leslie Jo Chase

I was in my 40’s when I started working at the park district as a pre-school art teacher. It was so much fun I couldn’t believe I was actually getting paid. I had the greatest connection to my five-year-old students because they were creative, enthusiastic, and excited about everything we did. Plus, they laughed at all of my jokes.

Working at the park district gave me many opportunities to do things I’d never done before, such as tending to bee hives, searching for and finding salamanders at the nature center, and manning the docks during Smelt Fest. 

 I enjoyed it all, but, during a planning meeting for the upcoming Polar Express extravaganza, I heard the seven words that would change my life forever, “We need someone to be The Reindeer!”

My hand shot right up. I knew deep down inside that I had found my calling; My destiny. I finally knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I looked around the room. No one else’s hand was raised, which I found surprising. I thought I’d have had to claw my way to the top. 

But then it occurred to me that one doesn’t know if one wants to be a Reindeer unless one really knows one wants to be a Reindeer. For most people it’s a personal decision that might take hours of self-reflection, and a therapist. It’s not right for everybody, but it was right for me.

After my very moving performance at the train station that first year, being the Reindeer for the Polar Express became my annual gig.

It also earned me the title of the park district’s “Mascot du Jour.” Over the years I suited up as “Smilie the Safety Dog” who, with the addition of a cape, moonlit as “Dracudog” for our Halloween Hayride. I was also “The Easter Chick” and the “Winter Fest Snowman”. I was well-received, for the most part. Some kids would burst into tears when they saw me, but that’s happened even when not in costume.

I took the wildly fun job of being a mascot very seriously. I decided that to truly become one with each mascot, and to keep my identity a secret, I’d never be seen without my head, and I wouldn’t speak. Not communicating verbally also gave me the opportunity to freely express myself through interpretive dance. I finally had the opportunity to engage in my true passion in public without anyone knowing who I was. When I do it at Target people look at me funny.

As the Reindeer I’d stand on the train station platform across from the kids so I could entertain them as they anxiously awaited the Polar Express. I’d put one of my front hooves up to my antler and look and listen for the train. I’d check my pretend watch and shrug my shoulders wondering where the train could be. I’d do the Moonwalk, and, because I really am a hoofer, I’d tap dance a little bit, too.

I remember deciding to mix it up one year and posed on the platform bench like a supermodel during a Vogue photoshoot. My supervisor actually came over and whispered in my antler to tone it down. I guess I wasn’t exhibiting proper reindeer decorum. I think the earrings had something to do with it.

Sometimes I’d drive to an event and change into my alter ego at the venue. Other times I’d sit with my head in my hands while Richard gave me a ride. Because I never wanted to ruin the mystique, Richard would park where no one could see me (or him) and then he’d help me put my head on straight. But I never went into the crowd before asking myself, “What’s my motivation?”

Depending on the mascot, each head had a small mesh screen hidden in an eyeball, nostril, or beak, and allowed me a very narrow path of vision. I had to be careful not to step on a child, or trip and become an actual Flying Reindeer. 

The little screen also served as my only source of ventilation. When breathing became an issue I’d interpretively dance away from the crowd, pry the Velcro apart that kept my head from falling off, and take a good, long breath of fresh air with my human mouth and nose. It got pretty hot inside, too. Even on the coldest days, I’d easily lose five pounds.

I began reminiscing about my mascot days recently when I happened to see a commercial for Coors Light that I thought was hilarious. It features two mascots from opposing college football teams heading into the locker room after what must have been an exhausting game. (It’s called “Mascot Chill” and I highly recommend watching it on YouTube.)

Then last weekend I watched the NHL All Star Weekend. Look, I like hockey as much as the next guy, but I was in it for the mascots. I found videos of the mascots playing dodgeball, running around Vegas, checking out buffets, shooting craps, and even trying out for Thunder Down Under. Spoiler alert: Gnash got the job. (Look for “NHL Mascots live it up in Las Vegas” and “NHL All-Star Mascot Showdown Dodgeball” on YouTube, too.)

I just loved being a mascot. I let loose. I had fun with it. It was liberating. I was a middle-aged woman running around in a faux fur suit with a head that couldn’t fit through doorways having the time of my life. 

I envy you, Tommy Hawk, Gritty, Mick E. Moose, Sparky, and the rest. You have the best job in the world. I’m here for you if you ever need a sub.

My mother, Lorraine Harriet Chase, née Fishman, sat happily in her hospital bed anxiously waiting for a nurse to bring me, her third child, into her room to meet her. She had recently awoken from the chemically induced coma obstetricians thought was the best way for most women to give birth in the 1950s and 60s.

She looked impeccable in her brand new size two pink peignoir from Bonwit Teller, a gift from my father, Norman Myron Chase, nee Chase. Then, as now, she had applied a full face of makeup and each curl on her head was perfectly placed. Of course she was also wearing earrings and her signature orange lipstick.

A nurse retrieved my father from the hazy open bar/waiting room/lounge. He was balancing a cigar between his lips and holding a scotch on the rocks with a twist in his hand as he followed her to see his wife and meet his newborn daughter.

By the time my father walked into the room, I had been placed in my mother’s arms. Thankfully she was wearing water-proof mascara because she took one look at me and burst into tears. She motioned for my father to come closer so she could whisper in his ear, “They gave us the wrong baby!”

My older sister and brother had been born with blond hair and fair skin. 

I looked like a monkey.

My mother and father looked at each other, back at me, and then each other. My father, an attorney, assured my mother that he would investigate my pedigree even if he had to pay a visit to the chief of staff. He vowed to find out beyond a reasonable doubt if I belonged to them, another family, or if a newborn chimp was missing from the Ape House at Lincoln Park Zoo.

After much sleuthing, it was determined that I did indeed belong to my parents. My father brought my siblings to visit me at the hospital. They took one look at me and called me “Wild Boomba.”

I was born on January 7, 1961, although my mother wrote January 9, 1961, on the notepad that served as my first baby book. After learning of a friend who said his parents used the back of his brother’s baby book to chronicle his childhood I felt a little better.

Back in the day, women stayed in the maternity ward for 10 days after giving birth even though they had no recollection of delivering their children. 

According to my mother, the nurses would bring babies to their mothers for feedings throughout the day, and the dads would come from work to dine on steak dinners and champagne with their wives. Add yoga and massages and you’ve got Canyon Ranch Spa.

By the time they left the hospital, some babies were already cutting teeth, crawling, eating solid foods, and a few even had their learner’s permits and were able to drive their parents home.

My parents were skeptical of my species until the day I pulled myself up to a standing position without attempting to climb up the furniture or scale the walls.

At least they kept me instead of dropping me off in a basket in front of the zoo. Besides, I don’t really like bananas.