| 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 where Grandma?" I hadn't
even finished with my second cinnamon bun yet. "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
drove 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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