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 us 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.
.Anonymous
MAY THIS SPECIAL TIME OF YEAR FILL YOUR HEART WITH JOY!