Unthinkable
12-16-02, 12:00 PM
The REAL Santa...
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.
Merry Christmas all you Santa's helpers!!
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.
Merry Christmas all you Santa's helpers!!