Santa Claus: The True Story
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," she said, "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.