Do you believe in Santa Claus?
19:43 Dec 27 2006
Times Read: 708
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandpa. I was just a kid.
I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit him on the day my big brother dropped the bomb:
"There is no Santa Claus," he jeered.
"Even dummies know that!"
My Grandpa was not the mushy kind, never had been. I fled to him because I knew he would be straight forward with me. I could count on Grandpa always telling me the truth.
I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of Grandma's "world-famous" cinnamon buns, which Grandpa would let me have. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandpa said they were and so it had to be true.
Grandpa was home, and the buns Grandma had baked earlier that morning were still warm. Between bites, I told him everything. He was ready for me, as he always was, with a good answer.
"No Santa Claus?" he snorted... "That's ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumour 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, Grandpa?" I asked.
I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be the Fiona's Fashions store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything to wear. As we walked through its doors, Grandpa handed me ten dollars which was a bundle in those days.
"Take this money," he said, "and buy something for someone who really needs it. I'll wait for you in the car."
Then he turned and walked out of Fiona's. I was only seven years old and while I'd often gone shopping with my mother, I had never had I shopped for anything all by myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of people finishing their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching the 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 neighbours, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Gene Campbell.
He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, who sat right in front of me in my grade one class.
Because he never went out to recess during the winter, I knew Gene Campbell didn't have a coat. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher he had a cough, only we kids knew Gene Campbell didn't have a cough; he didn't have a good coat.
I clutched that ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Gene Campbell a coat!
I settled on a blue corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for some - one?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Gene."
The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Gene really needed a good winter coat. While I did not get any change, she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, while Grandma helped me wrap the coat, a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandpa picked it up and tucked it in his photoalbum. We wrapped the coat in Christmas paper tied with ribbons.
She wrote "To Gene, From Santa Claus" on it on a card and tied it to the ribbon.
Grandpa said over Grandma's shoulder that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then he drove me over to Gene Campbell's house. As we went, he explained how I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers. Then Grandpa parked down the street from Gene's house.
He and I crept as noiselessly as we could and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandpa gave me a nudge. and whispered,
"All right, Santa Claus, get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, put the present down on his door step, pounded his door and ran back to the safety of the bushes and Grandpa.
Together we waited in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Gene.
Thirtyone years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandpa, in the bushes beside Gene Campbell's house.
That night, I realized those awful rumours about Santa Claus were just what Grandpa said they were — ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.
I have his photoalbum now and the coat tag, the one which had fallen out of the coat pocket, still tucked behind Grandpa's pic of us — the tag reads: $19.95.
May you always have LOVE to share, HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care...
And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus! (Even when it isn't Christmas!)
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