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 had no 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 in Christmas paper
and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in
her Bible) and wrote on our gift tag, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus".
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 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 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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