My grandma
taught me everything about Christmas. 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," jeered my sister. "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. I didn't see a price tag, but ten dollars
ought to buy anything. I put the coat and my ten-dollar bill on the counter
and pushed them toward the lady behind it.
She looked at the coat, the money, and me. "Is this a Christmas present
for someone?" she asked kindly. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's
... for Bobbie. He's in my class, and he doesn't have a coat." 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.
Suddenly, 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 twice 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. He looked down, looked
around, picked up his present, took it inside and closed the door.
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 ~
~ Author Unknown ~
