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 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, and 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. (
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