Santa Claus and Grandma
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. I knew they were world-famous,
because Grandma said so. It had to be true.
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 world-famous
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 Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and
messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two
class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went
out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling
the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't
have a cough; he didn't have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with
growing excitement. I would buy Bobby 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, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby."
The nice lady smiled at me, as I
told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get
any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me
wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her
Bible) in Christmas
paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it.
Grandma said that Santa always
insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby 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 Bobby'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 door 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 Bobby.
Fifty years haven't dimmed the
thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby 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.
I still have the Bible, with the
coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.
May you always have LOVE to
share, HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care...
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!
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