The
Real Santa Claus
I remember my first
Christmas party with Grandma. I was just a kid.
I remember tearing
across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big
sister dropped the
bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered.
"Even dummies know
that!"
My grandma was not
the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that
day because I knew
she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always
told the truth,
and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot
easier when swallowed
with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns.
Grandma was home,
and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told
her everything.
She was ready for me.
"No Santa Claus!"
she snorted. "Ridiculous!
Don't believe it.
That rumor has been going around for years, and it
makes me mad, plain
mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where,
Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second
cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out
to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town
that had a little
bit of just about everything. As we walked through
its doors, Grandma
handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those
days. 'Take
this money and buy something for someone who needs it.
I'll wait for you
in the car." Then she turned and walked out of
Kerby's.
I was only eight
years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but
never had I shopped
for anything all by myself. The store seemed big
and crowded, full
of people scrambling to finish their Christmas
shopping.
For a few moments
I just stood there, confused, clutching that
ten-dollar bill,
wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.
I thought of everybody
I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the
kids at school,
the people who went to my church. I was just about
thought out, when
I suddenly thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid
with bad breath
and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs.
Pollock's grade-two
class.
Bobbie Decker didn't
have a coat. I knew that because he never went out
for recess during
the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling
the teacher that
he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobbie Decker
didn't have a cough,
and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the
ten-dollar bill
with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a
coat. I settled
on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked
real warm, and he
would like that.
"Is this a Christmas
present for someone?"
the lady behind
the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes," I replied
shyly. "It's ... for Bobbie."
The nice lady smiled
at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the
coat in a bag and
wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma
helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and
ribbons, and write,
"To Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it -- Grandma said
that Santa always
insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobbie
Decker's house,
explaining as we went that I was now and forever
officially one of
Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down
the street from Bobbie's house, and she and I crept
noiselessly and
hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave
me a nudge.
"All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath,
dashed for his front door, threw the present down
on his step, pounded
his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the
bushes and Grandma.
Together we waited
breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to
open. Finally
it did, and there stood Bobbie.
Forty years haven't
dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering,
beside my grandma,
in Bobbie Decker's bushes. That night, I realized
that those awful
rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said
they were: ridiculous.
Santa was alive and well, and we were on his
team.
~ author unknown
~
WhisperWillow 2002
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