Jeff Manes: Lake Dale man is Kris Kringle, with an ‘attitude’

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W. Brian Mathias. | Provided Photo~Sun-Times Media

Updated: January 26, 2012 8:06AM

“... Up on the housetop, click, click, click

Down through the chimney with good St. Nick ... .”

— B.R. Hanby, circa 1860

W.Brian Mathias grew up in East Chicago and graduated from the former Roosevelt High School, where he wrestled for the Rough Riders.

After a six-year hitch with the Marine Corps, he became an ironworker. Mathias is a 73-year-old bull with a pair of guns on him like Popeye. He’s been married to Judie for 46 years; they live in Lake Dale.

His long, snow-white hair is often kept in a ponytail. He is bearded. When I mention his conservatism, he corrects me, “Oh, no, Jeff; make no mistake, I’m not conservative, I’m to the right of Genghis Kahn.”

Mathias also is Kris Kringle and, at his request, to protect believers, the more common Christmas nomenclature (S.C.) will not appear in this column. Besides, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of this particular jolly old soul.

* * *

“I grew up right across the street from (St. Stanislaus Catholic Church), above the barbershop.” Mathias began. “My father was from Wales. He wrestled, boxed and played a lot of rugby. He called American football ‘sissy ball.’ My mother was from Narrows, Ky — family of 13.”

Brian, you’re the president of the Friends of the Library in Lowell, and you’re a member of the Northwest Indiana Symphony Chorus.

“Yes, I was NWI Symphony Chorus manager for 10 years and a charter member — second bass.”

Welshmen are known warblers.

“You have a unique voice, Jeff. Second bass?”

No, I was a center fielder. That’s quite a gravy catcher you have there.

“Being an ironworker, and working outside, I always grew a beard every winter; I’d quit shaving on my birthday — Aug. 20.”

Leo the lion; with that mane, I should have guessed.

“I’d shave it off on April Fools’ Day. I can remember working on top, welding on a boiler one winter. My beard was drenched from the heat and my hair was hanging in my eyes, while icicles hung from my backside.”

Been there, done that.

“Before I retired, we were on a job at Standard Oil (now the BP refinery in Whiting). It was a blizzard; the wind was blowing about 60 mph. I told the guys, ‘I think I’ll do something that has never been done before.’ They asked, ‘What’s next, Brian?’ I climbed to the highest place they had — on top of a cat cracker. It was snowin’ like the Dickens.

What did you do?

“I belted out ‘The Hallelujah Chorus.’ You know, Jeff, my daughters used to fight to take off my boots when I’d get home. I’d tell them, ‘No need to fight girls; there’s one for each of you.’ They’d say, ‘Gee, Dad, did you wade in water?’ I’d say, ‘No, darlings; that’s sweat.’

“We worked hard and played hard in those days, but it’s dangerous out on that iron. After a while, you have to grow up. There’s old ironworkers and there’s bold ironworkers; there are no old, bold ironworkers.”

Was your father an ironworker?

“No, my dad was a steel worker in the open hearth, at Youngstown (Sheet & Tube Co.). He told me about the time when these whippersnapper bosses came out on the floor with shiny new helmets and said to my dad, ‘When are you going to be tapping that heat?’ They tried to use the lingo.

“ ‘When it’s ready,’ my dad said.

“ ‘How will you know? Do you realize you have gauges that aren’t working?’

“Dad said, ‘Yeah, they haven’t worked for six months.’

“ ‘Well, how do you ... .’

“ ‘You look at it. When it’s ready, that’s when we tap it.’

“ ‘Well, what about all these gauges?’ My father told them what they could do with their thermocouples. Those old-timers could tell within 15 degrees, the temperature of molten steel just by looking at it; it was an art.”

Your dad spoke his mind. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

“Jeff, I was questioned about not standing when a judge in federal court entered the room. The bailiff said, ‘Weren’t you told to stand?’

“I told him: ‘You know what? I took orders in the Marine Corps for six years, pal. I know my Constitution. I stand for no man, especially not one wearing a long gown.”

Let’s talk about the “Man in Red.”

“I try to be the best ‘Man in Red’ there is because when I was a kid in East Chicago, I can remember some adults having to walk a ‘Man in Red’ up to his chair because he was so drunk. And that’s probably how he got paid — by the bottle.”

To me, you’re the best. You’re an Edmund Gwenn lookalike. Thomas Nast drew you. Brian, I remember my mother taking my brother and me to see St. Nick; the guy was wearing these gigantic black, horn-rimmed glasses. And he had this fake, glued-on cotton beard. I know this is naughty, but, well, it kinda made me doubt.

“How old were you when that happened, little Jeffy?”

Seventeen.

“I don’t work the malls; it’s gotten too commercial. Before you know it, they’ll be wanting us out there by Labor Day. I work the nursing homes, hospitals, libraries ... .”

Probably had a few beard- yankers in your day, huh?

“Yeah, I can read ’em before they ever make a move. I’ll say, ‘Just don’t pull too hard.’ Their eyes will get real big and they’ll say, ‘Why, I wasn’t going to pull your beard, S----.”

Get any kids who are, forgive me, “claustrophobic?”

“Oh, yeah. Usually after a little coaxing or watching their siblings sit on my lap, they’ll warm up to the idea. My suit is velvet with real rabbit fur; it’s tailor-made. They start touching that soft, smooth velvet and they don’t want to leave.”

I’m sure you’ve heard more classics from the mouths of babes than Art Linkletter.

“I had one boy who would ask me for a vacuum cleaner every year. I finally asked his parents, ‘Does he use them?’

“ ‘Does he ever,’ said his mom. ‘He wears them out. Johnny just loves to clean.’”

Yikes.

“I had a kid ask me for a pillow case — nothin’ else. There also was a family of 13 children; most of them just wanted coats. I try to make sure they get them.

“I had a girl ask me if I had a little house. I said, ‘Like a doll house?’ She said, ‘No, for my family; ours burned down.’ ”

* * *

Since becoming a resident of south Lake County, Mathias has volunteered for Meals on Wheels, has been a volunteer fireman and was a regular blood donor until being diagnosed with prostate cancer.

Mathias said he grew up a minority — a Baptist among Catholics. He admits being a bit of a hell-raiser in his younger days, and he still can be feisty. Mathias told me: “If everybody likes you, you’re a hypocrite. I’m proud of the people who don’t like me. I’m not wishy-washy like a politician. I fear no man. I do fear God.”

After the interview, we paid a visit to my neighbor, the widow Mueller. Her health is failing. She calls Brian her Marine. Soon after, there was a knock at her door. It was the Rev. Peter Muha, with holy water in hand. She calls Father Pete her priest.

Again, Mathias was the minority.

But then, W. Brian Mathias is one of a kind.