Definitive Answer to "Is there really a Santa Claus?"
I remember my first Christmas adventure 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. 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.
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