Read time: 6 min.

My brain is packed to the brim with facts that come in handy for what I write about here: old schoolhouses, historic courthouses, flowing wells, and all the rest. Unfortunately, if there’s one glaring gap in that mental archive, it’s vintage blow mold Christmas decorations. I recently learned that the hard way.

My mom, my brother, and I have recently been working our way through my parents’ massive shed and uncovering a surprising parade of forgotten treasures along with a heavy dose of detritus. Some of it deserves its own story, like the WWI-era chaplain’s organ that folds down to the size of a briefcase! Still, one of the first things I pulled out stopped me in my tracks: a three-foot-tall blow mold Christmas train, complete with smokestack and tender. There’s also Chris Kringle himself, who appears to be on the verge of a powerful judo chop.

The Santa train was a long-ago artifact from my stepdad’s mom’s house, part of a haul that originally included a forty-inch leering snowman. Unfortunately, the train had faded paint and several large cracks. was it valuable, or at least collectible? Sure enough, it was: in 2022, The New York Times ran an article about how old plastic figures like the one I unearthed were making a major comeback¹.

I went a-Googlin’ until I found what I was looking for: Item 1341 in the 1973 Judith Novelty Sales Christmas catalog. The “Santa Choo Choo” represented the company’s “newest, novel outdoor decoration. Perfect for lawn or roof top. Bright, gay and colorful².” 

I started finding examples -nicer than the one in the shed- fetching prices that crept toward four figures. That got my attention. With a commission looming and the overwhelming need for cash of a man six months unemployed, I popped in fresh light bulbs, tested the electrics, and got it glowing again. Then I listed it: well below the top-end comps, but high enough to swat away the inevitable lowballers. In other words, I knew what I had. 

As it turns out, I didn’t. Three would-be sales came and went before someone finally asked if I’d knock fifty bucks off. Why not? We set a time, picked a place, and I staged the train outside. When the buyer showed up, though, he started circling it, hemming and hawing. That caught me off guard- I’d been upfront about the fading paint and the cracks. None of it should’ve been a surprise.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I’m going to need a motor for it,” he said, like he was delivering bad news. “A motor,” I echoed.“Yep,” he nodded. “These were supposed to have a motor so Santa could rotate.” He paused, then added, “I’m still interested… but I’ll have to track one down. Would you part with it for half?”

I’d never seen anything anywhere about Santa being motorized. For a split second, I tried to picture the anatomical mechanics of it: Father Christmas spinning around like something out of The Exorcist? Looking at the thing in front of me, Santa just seemed to perch on a lip atop the engine. I guess he could have rotated at one time? The buyer said he collected these things, and I dumbly assumed he knew more than me. 

I’m nothing if not impatient, unfortunately, and I wanted the deal done. I told him that, sure, I’d take half, even though it was the same lowball number I’d turned down from someone else a few days prior. Cash changed hands, and we lifted the train into his car. He drove off one way, I headed the other, and that was that. 

Still, the idea of a spinning St. Nick didn’t sit right. Afterwards, I did what I probably should’ve done earlier and again fired up Google. Before long, I turned up a PDF manual from when Empire Plastics produced the Santa Choo-Choo in the late ’80s and early ’90s. There it was, plain as day: no motor. Not even a hint of one. In fact, the diagram showed two set screws designed to lock Santa firmly in place!

I’d been snookered! I’d been hoodwinked! Hornswoggled! I broke the news to Mom when I got back, handing over half the money I’d promised her and explaining how the whole thing had unraveled. She was gracious, but suggested I leave the guy a bad review on Facebook Marketplace.

I wanted to, but the more I thought about it, the less it felt right. This guy didn’t twist my arm; he didn’t hide anything. He just saw an opportunity, and I gave it to him. It wasn’t his fault that it’d again come time to reassert my foolishness. The fault was mine. I should have been more prepared.

I guess the lesson here is to trust your instincts -and do enough research- before you let a sizable sum through your fingers. In my research, I’d never take someone’s word over a stack of maps, deeds, and primary sources. For whatever reason, I didn’t apply that same mindset with the Santa train, and it cost me.

Still, it’s hard to stay too frustrated: Santa’s been evicted, I got some needed cash, and more stories are still out there. Next time I drag something strange into the daylight, you can bet I’ll know exactly what I’ve got before anyone else tells me what it’s worth.

Sources Cited
1 DeCaro, F. (2022, December 8). Christmas Kitsch, No Longer Full of Hot Air. The New York Times [New York]. Web. Retrieved May 4, 2026. 
2 Santa Choo Choo (1973). Judith Novelty Sales, a division of Empire of Carolina. Catalog.